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Sol /V e UJ tjJl ([Vc^cr! 5) 

ii ^ 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


BY 

AIRS. MADELINE LESLIE, 

AUTHOR OS ‘-MIXME AND HER PETS,” “LITTLE AGNES,” “TIM THE 

SCISSORS-GRINDER,” ETC. 


BOSTON: 

I^EE AND SHEPARD 

. SUCCESSORS TO PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 

1864 . 

\ 


9 


GIFT 

MRS WALLACE H. WHITE 
JUNE 21 

PZ6 

3 ^ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 18G3, 

Bv A. n. BAKEE. 

In the Clerk's OfQ.ce of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts* 


CONTENTS. 


ClIAPTiat I. 

I’AOE 

THE ARRIVAL, 9 

CHAPTER H. 

THE SPANISH COUSIN, 20 

CHAPTER HI. 

THE NEIGHHORS, c . . ’ 32 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE ARTFUL GIRL, 44 

CHAPTER V. 

THE FALSE STATEMENT, - . 57 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE NARROAV ESCAPE, 08 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE, 80 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER Viri. 

PAOE 

THE ARTLESS CHILD, 97 

CHAPTER IX. 

FORGIVING INJUR V, 112 

CHAPTER X. 

COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT, 124 

CHAPTER X[. 

THE SEA-SHORE, 137 

CHAPTER XH. 

THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL, 151 

CHAPTER XIH. 

THE DECEPTION, 163 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE STARTLING DISCOVERY, 175 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE mother’s death, 101 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE traveller’s RETURN, 202 

CHAPTER XVH. 

THE CONTRAST, 212 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE ARRIVAL. 

“ They are coming ! They have come ! I’ve seen 
her!” shouted Fred Seaver, his face all in a glow 
of excitement. “O sis, she’s got splendid eyes, 
and such white teeth, and such lots of trunks ! ” 

The young girl addressed threw down her book, 
and ran to the door at which a carriage had this 
moment stopped. Her heart beat so fast that she 
could scarcely breathe. What was her astonishment 
when, instead of the pensive girl clad in mourning 
robes she had imagined, a gayly-dressed young lady, 
apparently eighteen or twenty years of age, sprang 
lightly from the vehicle, without waiting for the assist- 
ance of the coachman. Seizing her handj she gave 

0 


10 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


her a warm embrace. Then with a musical laugh 
turning to her uncle, she said, “ Surely this cannot 
be my cousin who is three months older than I am. 
Why, she is not out of short clothes ! ’’ 

Emily’s face was suffused with crimson as she 
cast a glance of shame at her neatly-slippered feet ; 
but suddenly recollecting herself, she ran up the 
steps to show her cousin into the parlor. 

Mrs. Seaver came forward and cordially welcomed 
her niece, then asked, “ Will you go up stairs, my 
dear, and lay aside your bonnet and shawl ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! that is not necessary,” replied Isabel, 
“ I can take them off here.” 

She walked across the room to a long mirror, and 
removing her outer garments threw them upon the 
table, ran her fingers through the puffs of her hair, 
and then seated herself languidly on the sofa. 

“ Did your ride fatigue you ?” inquired her aunt. 

“ Not much ; but I am very glad to reach the 
end of my journey.” 

At this moment Fred peeped in through the crack 
of the door, and, much to the astonishment of Mrs. 


THE ARRIVAL. 


11 


Seaver and Emily, Isabel Sandoval darted out and 
caught him by the shoulder. “ Come here, Jack,” 
she exelaimed, with a burst of laughter ; “ are you 
my cousin ? Say, why don’t you give me a kiss ? ” 

She pulled him forward into the room, and pres- 
ently an amusing dialogue was passing between 
them. 

“ Well, what do you think of me ? ” she asked, 
after he had gazed a moment steadily in her face. 

“I can’t tell so quick,” answered the boy. “ I like 
your eyes though ; but I thought — ” 

“ What did you think ? ” she urged, with an arch 
glance at her uncle who had just entered the room. 

“ I expected you wouldn’t want to laugh, and I 
was afraid you’d be dreadful stuck up ; ’cause Emily 
said — ” 

“ No matter what your sister said,” rejoined Mr. 
Seaver ; “ speak for yourself.” 

“ Pray, why did you suppose I should be sober ? ” 
asked Isabel in surprise. 

Fred did not at once reply, but at length faltered 
out, Your mother is dead, you know.” 


12 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


To the horror of all present, the orphan burst 
into a hearty laugh ; but, instantly perceiving the 
effect of her ill-timed levity, she said, in a softened 
tone, “ I have seen little of mother for years until I 
•was called from school just before her death.” She 
ran her fingers through Fred’s curls for a minute, 
and then added, “ Come, I want to hear your whole 
opinion.” 

“ I didn’t think you would be so large,” continued 
the lad ; “ why, you are younger than Em, and you 
look most as old as mother ! But, so far, I like you 
first-rate.” 

Isabel pinched his ear, saying, gayly, “ That’s to 
pay for your compliment,” and then arose with the 
rest to obey the summons to tea. 

While they ^e seated at table, I will give a brief 
account of those who have been so unceremoniously 
introduced to notice; and perhaps I cannot do so 
better than to relate a short conversation which took 
place some weeks previous to the opening scene. 

Who is your letter from, papa ? ” asked Emily 


THE ARRIVAL. 


13 


Seaver, gayly, as she approached her father, and 
rested her arm fondly on his shoulder. 

Mr. Seaver playfully patted her cheek. “ You are 
a true daughter of Eve,” he replied. Then changing 
his tone, he said, gravely, “ Emily, I have received 
tidings from my sister in the West Indies. Her life 
is drawing toward its close, and she wishes to leave 
her only child to my care. Her name is Isabel, and 
she is nearly sixteen years old.*’ 

“ O, papa ! how glad, how very glad I am ! ” ex- 
claimed the young girl, clapping her hands. “ I have 
so longed for a sister ; and then she is so very near 
my age, only three months younger, — we can study 
and work and ride together. But ah ! ” she added, 
with a sigh, ‘‘I suppose she wont feel like doing 
anything at first, for her mother will be dead. 

The last words were uttered in a tone of deep 
sadness, as if she realized what a dreadful weight of 
sorrow such a loss would bring to her own heart. 
After a moment’s silence she asked, “ When do you 
expect her here, papa ? ” 

“ I can’t say, indeed, my child,” rejoined the gen^ 


14 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


tieman, starting from liis reverie ; “ Isabel will of 
course not leave home until after her mother’s 
decease ; and then I shall certainly consent to act as 
her guardian ; but I must know something more of 
her character and habits before I allow anything like 
the intimacy of sisters between you.” 

Emily opened wide her eyes, and was about to 
speak earnestly ; but she saw an expression of pain 
upon her father's countenance, and she hesitated, 
while he rose abruptly and hastened from the room. 

When she saw him a few hours later, the traces of 
deep emotion were still visible, and indeed these 
hours had not passed without many tears. It was 
then nearly eighteen years since he had parted from 
his impulsive but dearly loved sister, who, disregard- 
ing her parent’s wishes and even entreaties, had per- 
sisted in marrying a young Spanish officer and ac- 
companing him to Cuba. How well he recollected 
that parting hour : their parents, overv^belmed with 
grief and anxious forebodings, but still blessing their 
wilful child Caroline ; her eyes at one moment 
sparkling with pleasure, as she gazed upon the 


THE ARRIVAL. 


15 


handsome officer at her side, the next gushing with 
tears as she realized that she was to leave her 
parents and home forever. Since that, he had heard 
from her only at long intervals. He knew that she 
had borne three children, of whom only Isabel sur- 
vived ; that she had been a widow nearly a year ; 
and he supposed her left with an ample fortune. He 
had heard also that his niece closely resembled her 
mother in disposition and character, and even sur^ 
passed her in personal charms. 

. Now she was about to die and be buried in a for- 
eign land, with none of her kindred near her, save 
her daughter, to close her weary eyes when she had 
done with earth. How he longed to fly to her side, 
and breathe words of hope into her ear. What con- 
solation would it be to him could he be assured that 
she had chosen God as her father and Jesus as her 
elder brother. Alas, no ! there were a few words 
at the close of the letter which was written by her 
physician ; but they were simply these : 

“Dear Brother: — Before you recieve this, 
I shall probably be resting in the grave ; and were it 


16 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


not for Isabel I should be glad to die, for I am weary, 
weary of life. I know the memory of our childhood 
will prevent your refusing the last request I shall 
ever make of you, and that is, to be a guardian to 
my child. Be patient with her, for she has never 
known control. Your dying sister, 

Caroline.’’ 

Two months later, Mr. Seaver went to New York 
to meet the vessel in which he had been informed 
that his niece had embarked. After many and ear- 
nest consultations with his wife, he had determined 
to receive Isabel for a time into his own family, in 
the hope that her heart, subdued by sorrow, would 
be susceptible to religious influence. 

In the mean time Emily was in a state of excite- 
ment very unusual with her. The idea of having a 
friend of her own age to dwell under the same roof, 
to participate in all her pleasures, to sympathize in 
all her childish griefs, was delightful enough, to be 
sure. But to have one so beautiful and gifted as 
she had learned her cousin was, to occupy the endear- 


THE ARRIVAL. 


17 


ing relation of sister, was happiness almost too great 
for words. There was just enough of mystery about 
Isabel, to make her all the more pleasing : daughter 
of a Spanish officer of high rank, educated in a con- 
vent, accustomed to have every wish gratified, — all 
this poor Emily thought must produce a combination 
of charms seldom witnessed. 

On the day her father and cousin were expected, 
the young girl arose early, and, having aroused her 
brother Fred, set out on a ramble in search of wild 
flowers to adorn Isabel’s room. Tn compliance with 
her earnest request, her mother had allowed her to 
select the one next her own ; and to this she had 
removed many articles of ornament from her toilet- 
table. The arrangements had been completed over 
night. The delicate pink curtains gave a rosy tint 
to the snow-white covering of the bed ; the large easy 
chair was pushed into just the right corner by the 
west window ; the ottoman, covered with pink like 
the windows, was filled with extra blankets lest the 
southerner should miss the warmth of her native 

clime. The shining bookshelves, with their neat 
2 


18 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


rows of well-selected volumes, all proved that the 
careful hand of affection had been present. 

When Emily had arranged the flowers in her 
prettiest vase, once more dusted the mantle, and 
given a finishing touch to the bed, she said, ear- 
nestly, “ It looks very pleasant ; I hope she will like 
it.” 

“ She can’t help it,” exclaimed Fred. “ It looks 
tip-top.” 

“ I’m afraid Isabel wont think you are tip-top, if 
you use such words,” said Emily, with a merry laugh. 

“ I shan’t like her, then,” returned the boy, ear- 
nestly ; “ I can’t bear stuck-up people.” 

“Why, Fred! where did you learn such expres- 
sions ? What do you mean by ‘ stuck up ’ 

“ People that are very precise and proud, and 
think they are better than any one else. Now is 
Isabel like that?” 

“ I can’t say, indeed ; but I think she has been 
so well educated that she will use the best English 
and that she will be very graceful and elegant, and 
of course very proper in all her conduct.” Emily 


THE ARRIVAL. 


19 


sighed as she thought, “ What will my accomplished 
cousin think of such a simple girl as I am ? ” 

As the afternoon wore away Emily’s excitement 
increased, and she regarded her mother with aston- 
ishment, as she sat calmly at work. She tried to 
interest herself in a book, but had scarcely read a 
page when Fred burst open the door and announced 
the arrival, as I have related at the commencement 
of this chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 

Mr. and Mrs. Seaver did not require many 
days to obtain an insight into the character of their 
niece. Extremely attractive in person, graceful and 
even fascinating in manner, gifted with quick dis- 
cernment and an active, inquiring mind, her morals 
w’ere yet wholly unformed, and her intellect undis- 
ciplined. She could speak Spanish fluently, and had 
a smattering of French, but understood little of the 
rudiments of the English language. She could sing, 
and accompany herself with some skill upon the 
guitar, could dance like a danseuse, and whistle as 
well as any boy in the land ; but she could neither 
write a decent letter, nor spell with any degree of 

accuracy. When moved by generous impulses, she 

20 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


21 


acted upon them, and so also when excited by those 
of an opposite character. She never stopped to ask 
herself, “ Is this right ? ” “ Will God approve my con- 
duct?” She scarcely seemed to realize the exist- 
ence of a Supreme Being ; her only desire seemed to 
be to live for her own gratification. 

Mr. Seaver received letters from a gentleman in 
Cuba with regard to the settlement of Mrs. Sando- 
val’s property. Without referring to these he made 
particular inquiries of Isabel as to their manner of 
living, the expenses of her mother’s sickness, and 
a variety of such personal matters. He was excess- 
ively grieved to find that her statements did not at all 
agree with the facts ; indeed, that she had not the 
slightest regard for truth. She represented their 
style of living as luxurious : the splendor of the fur- 
niture, the costliness of the carriages, the number of 
the slaves, the richness of their viands as far beyond 
what she had seen in the States. 

But when questioned why, if such were the case, 
the expenses of the journey had been so scantily 
defrayed, and why, as she had stated, her mother had 


22 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


soon after her father’s death removed her to a school 
of inferior merit, that the expense might be less, she 
colored, liesitated, and was glad to escape by saying, 
“ You know, dear uncle, I have never thought nor 
cared about business. Since I could have as hand- 
some dresses and ornaments as my companions, and 
plenty of money in my purse, I was content.*’ 

“ And has this always been the case ? ” asked the 
gentleman, gravely. 

“Yes, always; why should you doubt it?” 

“ Because your mother’s agent has sent me a full 
account of the estate, that I, as your guardian, might 
know how to regulate the expenses of your education. 
He says the whole property, if sold now, would bring 
but a couple of thousand dollars, that for years every 
thing has been conducted with the strictest economy, 
and that Juba, the most valuable servant, had to be 
sold to pay your school bills and your passage to 
New York.” 

“Poor Juba!” cried Isabel, “I did pity him;” 
and with a flood of tears she ran hastily from the 


room. 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


23 


“ Oh, how like her mother,” murmured Mr. Seaver 
sadly ; “ full of noble, generous impulses, but with no 
moral principle to regulate them. Is it safe to trust 
our children to such an influence ?” He sat meditat- 
ing upon the subject, when he was aroused by loud 
peals of laughter from the kitchen, mingled with the 
cries of some one in distress. He arose hastily, and 
on approaching the room saw Isabel sitting on the 
floor with her feet drawn under her, the centre of a 
circle consisting of her cousins and the servants, 
whom she was entertaining with an account of the 
departure of Juba after he was sold. Personating 
the wife of the poor slave, she wrung her hands, tore 
her hair, all the time uttering the most piercing 
shrieks, rocking her body back and forth, and giving 
vent to the most extravagant expressions of grief. 
Suddenly rising from the floor, she exclaimed, “ Now 
I’ll be Juba,” and hastily catching Fred’s cap from 
the chair she set it jauntily on her head, and began 
pacing the floor, her arms folded on her breast, and 
her face denoting the deepest woe. 

At this moment Mr. Seaver opened wide the door, 


24 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


behind which he had been concealed, and found 
Emily in tears. 

Fred burst into a loud laugh, the servants hastily 
returned to their duties, while Isabel, not in the 
least disconcerted, turned to her uncle with an arch 
expression that reminded him so forcibly of his sister 
Caroline, that he was unable to utter one word. 

Emily was the first one to speak. “ O, cousin ! ” 
she cried, tearfully, “ How can you make fun of poor 
Juba’s grief? I’m sure I am sorry for him, with all 
my heart.” 

“I am going to buy him back,” replied Isabel, 
loftily ; “ I promised him I would. He is the best 
servant on the place.” 

“ Hurrah for Juba !” shouted Fred, taking his cap 
from his cousin, and throwing it to the top of the 
room. 

The next day Mr. Seaver entered the parlor and 
found Emily sitting there, quietly gazing into the fire. 
She was so absorbed in thought that she did not 
appear to notice his entrance. He took a book, but 
his eyes wandered constantly to his daughter, who 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


25 


sighed repeatedly as if her reverie were a painful 
one. 

“What is the reason you sigh so heavily, my 
dear ? ” asked the gentleman, tenderly. 

Emily started. “ Why father ! ” she exclaimed, “ I 
didn’t see that you were in the room.” Then, per- 
ceiving he waited for her reply, she blushed as she 
murmured, “ I was only thinking, sir.” 

“ So I perceived. But you seem to be sad.” 

“ Father,” said she, earnestly, “is it always wrong 
not to tell the truth ? ” 

“ Always, my dear.” 

Emily sighed again. “ But when — ” she hesi- 
tated, and colored. 

“ What is a lie, my dear ? ” 

“ That which is not true, I suppose.” 

A lie, Emily, is an intention to deceive. A per- 
son may tell that which is not true, he may relate an 
allegory or parable, as an illustration of truth, which 
has no foundation even in fact ; and yet it is not a 
lie. The person relating it does not wish to deceive 


26 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


you. He knows that you understand it to be merely 
an illustration.” 

“ But when a person tells a story in joke, father, 
as Isa — as some do ? ” 

“ This is a dangerous kind of story, my dear ; 
because it, is always difficult to tell how much of it 
can really be depended upon. A man, woman, or 
child who is much addicted to this, will gradually lose 
that nice regard for truth which I have so earnestly 
endeavored to inculcate in your breast.” 

“ When mother tells me anything,” said the young 
girl, thoughtfully, “ I am always sure that it is true.” 

“ And yet she has a very lively imagination, and 
loves a good joke,” added the gentleman. 

“ Yes, sir ; but I always know in a minute when 
she is joking. I wish I could when Isabel tells me 
stories.” 

“ Suppose you repeat one of which you are in 
doubt, and I will endeavor to decide for you, my 
dear.” 

Emily blushed, sighed again, and then exclaimed, 
“ Only think, father, she is three months younger than 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


27 


I am, and yet she says she has had ever so many 
beaux, and two of them wanted to marry her. She 
laughed at me because I told her I had never had- 
one beau, but you and Harvey and Fred.” 

Mr. Seaver looked grave, almost stern. “ It is 
very foolish to think or talk upon such subjects at 
your age, my child. I really cannot say whether 
what she has told you is true or false ; but it is time 
a stop should be put to such an influence. I fear I 
have greatly erred.” 

He left Emily wondering at her fathers emotion, 
and sought his wife. “ Isabel must be sent to school,” 
he said in a decided tone. “ I cannot have my sim- 
ple-hearted, truthful, artless Emily exposed to such 
society. The idea of a girl of sixteen having her 
mind filled with the thought of beaux and marriage, 
when she ought only to be thinking of her studies ! 
Preposterous ! And yet,” he added sadly, “ how like 
her mother. O Caroline ! ” 

At the distance of a few hundred yards from Mr. 
Seaver’s house, and joined to it by a narrow walk 
leading through the garden, was a neat but tasteful 


28 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


cottage owned by an aunt of Mrs. Seaver. Mrs. 
Everett had been married at a very youthful age, 
but lost her husband, and had since remained a 
widow for nearly thirty years. Slie was possessed 
of an ample fortune, sufficient for all her wants and 
for the education of Harvey her adopted son. This 
young man was the only child of her husband’s 
brother, and was committed to her care upon the 
death of his mother when he was but a few months 
old. He was now in his fourth year in his college 
course, after which he intended to pursue medical 
studies. The small fortune left him by his father 
still remained upon interest, and now, as Harvey 
approached his majority, amounted to a snug little 
fortune. It had been a favorite project with the 
young student to expend a part of this in perfecting 
his medical knowledge at the famous hospitals in 
Paris and Edinburgh ; but hitherto Mrs. Everett had 
withheld her consent, only saying in reference to the 
subject, “ When the time comes we will see — we 
will see.” 

In college Everett had been too close a student, 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


29 


and too reserved to be a general favorite ; though his 
high rank as a scholar won him not only the respect 
of his class, but the unqualified approbation of his 
professors. He had a few chosen companions, how- 
ever, who appreciated and loved him as a friend, who 
were permitted to look into his heart, and who 
regarded with equal delight and surprise one who in 
the midst of temptations to extravagance and dissipa- 
tion, had attained such a high degree of eminence in 
all that was lovely and of good report. They did not 
at all understand the inward struggles, the prayer 
and watching necessary to attain this end. They 
were not aware of the fact that though often detained 
until midnight in the prosecution of his studies, yet 
he never retired to rest without first asking his own 
heart, “ In what respects have I this day failed in the 
performance of my duty as a pupil, as a friend, as a 
Christian — without imploring pardon from on high 
for the sake of a crucified Saviour ; that the rising 
sun found him upon his knees pleading for guidance, 
succor, and strength to resist the temptations of the 


30 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


To Mrs. Everett, who regarded her son as the 
perfection of early manhood, his presence was scarcely 
less welcome than to the family of Mr. Seaver. In- 
deed, Mrs. Seaver, who had lived with her aunt 
previous to her marriage, had shared the care of 
Harvey in his infancy and early youth, regarded him 
as a dearly beloved brother, while the children loved 
him as one of themselves. 

Mr. Seaver, who had pursued a collegiate course 
of study, but who had been subsequently occupied in 
commerce, had always been the interested confidant 
and adviser of their young friend, and the earnest 
advocate of his wishes to visit Europe previous to 
commencing practice as a physician. 

I have said that Harvey was somewhat reserved 
in general society ; but by this I do not mean that he 
was at all morose or gloomy ; for, on the contrary, he 
had the reputation of being the most graceful skater, 
the most expert at football, and the most daring at 
the gymnastic exercises, of any young man in col- 
lege. When engaged in either of these sports, he 
threvr his whole soul into them. At home he was 


THE SPANISH COUSIN. 


31 


the life of the family circle. He ran in and out at 
his uncle’s, at all hours of the day, helped Emily in 
her studies, and Fred in his plays. He was always 
ready to do an errand in town for his mother, or 
aunt, as he called Mrs. Seaver, to attend his cousin 
in a walk, or to help Fred fly his kite. It was no 
wonder, therefore, that all regretted his absence and 
longed for his return. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE NEIGHBORS. 

It is difficult accurately to describe Mrs. Everett, 
either in person or character, as she was what is 
called eccentric. She was rather below the medium 
height, with a slight, trim figure, and a countenance 
which bore the marks of former beauty. She had 
small, keen, black eyes,' which were capable of ex- 
pressing either gravity or mirth. She always wore 
glasses, which Fred had lately charged to the fact 
that she was afraid of letting him see when her eyes 
laughed. 

In character she was very decided: what some 
people call up and down.” And truly one* need not 
mistake her views. “I never mince matters,” she 

would often say, while her eyes twinkled with mirth. 

32 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


33 


I live in a free country, and I thank God that I 
have the right to my own honest opinion, both in 
religion and in politics.” 

She was a professor of religion, and gave no one 
occasion to suspect that she was not also a possessor. 
“ I am weak and imperfect at best,” she would some- 
times say ; “ and the knowledge of my own frailties 
makes me have charity towards those who err ; but I 
never can look with favor upon man, woman, or child 
who is guilty of duplicity. A person who is untrue 
to himself, who speaks contrary to his real senti- 
ments, or acts a part foreign to his real wishes for 
the accomplishment of some particular purpose, can 
never be trusted, either in public or in private.” 

When Isabel first became a member of her uncle’s 
family, Mrs. Everett was delighted with the gay 
good nature of the young girl. Isabel’s good traits, as 
well as her bad ones, were on the surface. Though 
naturally indolent she was ready to oblige, and there 
was a warmth of afiection exhibited toward those 
around her, a demonstrative display of affection, 

which was very winning. For a time her uncle, 

3 


84 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


aunt, cousins, and even the servants were carried 
away by it. Therefore it was not strange that Mrs. 
Everett should exclaim to herself, “ Poor child, she 
has been deprived of father and mother; it is no 
wonder she clings with such fondness to ^ the rela- 
tives still left her.” 

Emily Seaver was an especial favorite with this 
good lady. Almost her first steps, after she had 
learned to walk, were directed to “ Aunt Maly’s ” 
cottage ; and since that time she felt as much at lib- 
erty in one house as in the other. When Harvey 
was at home it was only natural for her to be there 
at all hours of the day ; and when he was not. Aunt 
Mary would be lonely without her. 

At first Isabel accompanied her on these unceremo- 
nious visits, somewhat startling Abigail, Mrs. Ever- 
ett’s major-domo, by bringing so fashionably-dressed 
a young lady through the kitchen ; for Emily was as 
likely to run into the cottage before breakfast or by 
the back door as to wait until later, or to announce 
herself in a more ceremonious manner. 

But Isabel could find nothing at all charming in 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


35 


the conversation of an old lady, nor attractive in a 
neat, but somewhat precise parlor where the furni- 
ture was a type of the last generation, and soon 
voted visits to the cottage a decided bore. 

In the company of Fred, whom she openly lamen- 
ted was not a dozen years older; or in winning 
applause from the servants by her acting, as they 
designated her racy descriptions of West India life, 
she enjoyed herself far more than in the company 
of her aunt and uncle. 

But a month had not passed before a change came 
over the entire household, with the exception of Isa- 
bel herself. Mr. Seaver and his wife looked care- 
worn, Emily grave, Fred decidely rude, and the 
servants careless in their duties, and disrespectful 
toward their mistress. 

Immediately after his conversation with his daugh- 
ter, Mr. Seaver had written to a lady, teacher of an 
academy, wishing to place his neice under her care ; 
but as he had frankly confessed that the young girl 
needed constant watchfulness, that she was deficient 
in her moral training, though capable of making a 


36 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


most useful woman ; the lady had demurred in 
regard to the influence such a miss would exert over 
her other pupils. The correspondence occupied a 
week or two, and in the mean time the gentleman re- 
ceived a bill from ope of the fancy-goods dealers, for 
articles charged to him on Miss Sandoval’s account. 

Neither her aunt or cousin had been aware that 
she had ever purchased a single article ; and when 
her uncle kindly expostulated, stating that the very 
limited state of her finances would not authorize 
such extravagance, she opened wide her large black 
eyes, and laughed in his face. 

“ How can I live without fine clothes ? ” she 
exclaimed, when she saw that her mirth made him 
seriously displeased. “ I have always done just as I 
pleased ; and I am angry that I came to the States if 
I must be tutored like a child. I will tell you what 
I will do,” she added, suddenly raising her eyebrows 
and throwing her arm fondly around her uncle’s neck, 
“ I will sell Elsie the cook. She loves me so dearly 
she would readily consent to go, rather than to have 
me denied the shawls and dresses that I like.” 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


37 


Mr. Seaver threw off the caressing arm, and 
started back to look at his niece. He could not 
believe her to be in earnest ; but there she stood, her 
eyes sparkling and her cheeks crimsoned with the 
pleasant anticipation of being so soon saved from 
her annoyances. 

He gazed at her, conscious of a feeling of contempt, 
of loathing toward a child who would so readily sac- 
rifice the dearest wishes of a faithful, affectionate 
servant, merely to gratify a momentary whim. 

It required all the softening influences he could 
bring to bear upon the case, to repeat to himself 
again and again, “ Poor child ! she has been left to 
grow up like a weed, without moral culture, without 
any appeal even to the best feelings of her heart, 
not to turn upon her with harsh words, and threats 
of coming ruin.” 

“ Isabel,” he said, solemnly, as soon as he could 
control himself, “ I may as well tell you now as at 
any time, that you must learn to deny yourself. You 
have not the means, even if it were right, for you 
to spend money so extravagantly. It is only by the 


38 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


strictest economy that you can pay the expenses of 
your education. As I told you before, I, as your 
guardian, have made inquiries of the agent ap' 
pointed by your mother, and find there will be 
scarcely sufficient to accomplish that object.” 

“ But I shall be married in a year or two,” was 
the laughing response. If I do not dress hand- 
somely, I shall not make so good a match.” 

“ O Caroline ! Caroline ! ” was the moan which 
burst forth, as the young girl with a smile of triumph 
turned from the apartment. He heard her running 
through the hall humming a snatch of a negro song, 
and sighed heavily, as he realized what a burden of 
care and solicitude had fallen upon him. 

“ I can never endure this,” he said to himself at 
length ; “ there is nothing to which an appeal can be 
made, — no fear of God, no regard for any one but 
herself.” He paced the fioor rapidly, trying to decide 
what was best to be done with the wayward girl. 
All at once he seemed to see the loving eyes of 
his dying sister fixed upon him, while these words 
came slowly from her pale lips : “ Be patient with 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


39 


mj child, brother, for she has never known con- 
trol.” 

He breathed a prayer for himself, and for lier who 
was the cause of so much anxiety ; and then went 
to join his family at tea. But on one point he was 
determined. Isabel must not remain under his 
roof. 

After family prayer, which exercise was disturbed 
be Fred’s laughing aloud, and complaining that his 
cousin snapped a seed into his ear, Emily took her 
bonnet and went across the garden to the cottage. 
Scarcely ten minutes passed before they heard her 
voice in animated conversation with some one, and 
presently she returned, ushering cousin Harvey into 
the parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Seaver cordially greeted 
the young collegian, and Fred, who was playing 
battledoor with Isabel in the back porch, heard his 
familiar voice, and came running in. 

In the excitement of the moment Isabel was for- 
gotten ; but no sooner had she become aware of the 
presence of a handsome gentleman, than she hurried 
to her own room to prepare for a conquest. Having 


40 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


thrown a bright-colored scarf over her 'sable dress, 
which increased the brilliancy of her complexion, 
and brushed until it shone her black, glossy hair, 
she sauntered carelessly toward the parlor as if not 
aware of the presence of any stranger. 

Harvey, who was sitting opposite the door, first 
discovered her, and was quite startled at the sight 
of so much beauty. He arose immediately, and with 
some embarrassment waited for her to enter. 

My niece. Miss Sandoval, Mr. Everett,” said Mr. 
Seaver, introducing them. 

Isabel bowed gracefully, and then walked the 
entire length of the room to a chair. She had often 
been told that her gait was elegant, and on this 
occasion she was not averse to exhibiting her 
accomplishments. 

Harvey tried to go on with a story he was telling 
Emily, but his eyes continually w^andered to the 
beautiful figure before him. He was becoming a 
little vexed that his aunt or cousin had not prepared 
him to meet so fascinating a stranger. Mrs. Everett 
had certainly told him in a letter of the arrival of 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


41 


a little girl younger than Emily ; but for a meeting 
like the present he was wholly unprepared. 

In the mean time, Isabel, after throwing the artil- 
lery of her sparkling eyes full upon the young stu- 
dent, did not seem to consider him worthy of any 
further attention. So, calling her faithful admirer 
Fred to her side, she smilingly proposed to occupy 
the next hour by a game of dominoes. They sat 
there together; the setting sun, as if comprehending 
her purpose, sent its rays to fall upon and beautify 
her bowed head, while- in a low, musical voice she 
carried on her part of the conversation. 

“ Isn’t cousin Harvey handsome ? ” inquired Fred 
in a whisper. 

I did not notice particularly,” was the artful 
reply ; “ I dare say, though, he is very good looking ; 
but [with a sigh] we have such fine men in the 
Islands, vastly superior to yours in the States. 

“ Well, he admires you if you don’t him,” Fred 
insinuated, in the same tone. 

“ I shall win the game if you don’t attend,” care- 
lessly responded his companion. 


42 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


‘‘ I can’t help laughing to see Harvey. His eyes 
are fixed on us.” 

Isabel suddenly raised hers, and encountered the 
wondering glance of the young man. 

He rose instantly and approached them, making 
some remark about their play. 

There, Fred, TU call that even now against our 
last game,” she said, in a gay tone, suddenly shut- 
ting up the chess-board on which they had been 
playing. 

“ Are you fond of chess ? ” inquired the student. 

“I have never tried it, sir. Fred, you rogue, 
keep quiet now,” as the young fellow whispered in 
her ear : “ he’s fairly caught this time.” 

She laughed gayly, showing her white, even teeth. 

Mr. Everett thought he had never seen such fresh 
red lips. He was fairly dazzled with her charms. 
For the next half hour he talked and laughed with 
her as he had seldom talked and laughed before, 
while Emily stood near him, fondly leaning on his 
shoulder. Dinner-time came, but he found it difficult 
to tear himself away from the interesting West 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


43 


Indian, and finally allowed Fred to carry his excuse 
to his mother. 

In the afternoon he persuaded her to walk, scarcely 
noticing whether Emily accompanied them, and re- 
turned just as Abigail was bringing in the tea-tray. 

Mrs. Everett rose somewhat formally .to receive 
her guests, but had scarcely time to give them a seat 
when Harvey exclaimed, gayly, “ Thank me, mother, 
for bringing you some company. I had to urge 
Miss Sandoval a long time before she would consent 
to come in so unceremoniously.” 

Bring extra plates, Abigail,” was the lady’s only 
reply. 

Emily instantly perceived that the visit was un- 
timely. She approached Mrs. Everett, and fondly 
taking her hand said, in a low tone, “ I did not think 
we had better come, but Harvey would hear no de- 
nial. I knew you would like best to see him alone 
after his long absence.” 

‘‘ Hush, child ! ” and Mrs. Everett patted Emily’s 
rosy cheek ; you know I am always happy to have 
'you here.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE AKTFUL GIRL. 

Greatly to the relief of Mr. and Mrs. Seaver, 
a letter arrived the next morning containing Mrs. 
Summer’s consent to receive Miss Sandoval into her 
school. If their anxiety could have been increased 
in regard to their niece, her conduct toward Mr. Ev- 
erett would have intensified this feeling. Until within 
a few hours an entire stranger to him, she had now 
come to be so extremely familiar that even Emily 
shrunk back with surprise. Leaving the young peo- 
ple together in the library, Harvey, the humble ser- 
vant of Isabel, engaged in holding a skein of bright- 
colored worsted, while he carried on a lively banter 
with the lady, Mrs. Seaver crossed the garden to her 
aunt’s cottage. 


44 


THE AllTFUL GIRL. 


45 


The old lady was sitting prim and upright in her 
high-backed chair, reading her morning portion from 
Jay’s Religious Exercises, and did not stoop from her 
high position even when her niece began to unbur- 
den her heart of its trials. 

“ Mrs. Summers will take her,” she went on ; “ but 
the term does not commence for another fortnight. 
In the mean time, I fear her influence over Harvey.” 

My son is not a fool,” was the terse remark ; add- 
ing, presently, “ if the young lady is ; I consider it a 
fortunate circumstance that she cannot go at present. 
Harvey has nothing to occupy him. Let them be 
together as much as possible.” 

“ But surely, aunt, you cannot think her a suita- 
ble — ” began Mrs. Seaver, when Mrs. Everett in- 
terrupted her. 

“ Tush, tush ! Emma. We can’t manage every- 
thing our own way. Hid you never hear of the 
silly youth who jumped into the bramble-bush and 
put out both his eyes ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” was the laughing retort; “and you 


46 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


think it a wise course to jump again to restore his 
sight ? ” 

“ Certainly. Place no restriction upon them ; let 
them both run the length of their rope.” 

“ But I fear the example upon my simple-hearted 
Emily. Isabel is even younger than she.” 

“ Ah, there speaks the mother’s heart ! Yes, I 
acknowledge a sight of all the coquetting, billing, 
and cooing, there is likely to be for the next fortnight 
will do her no good. Why not let her make her 
grandmother a visit ? ” 

“ Yes, she might do that ; but she will regret to 
lose Harvey’s visit.” 

“ Very likely ; and so do I.” 

The old lady returned to her reading with a pro- 
found sigh. She had been looking forward to this 
vacation for three long months. She must be par- 
doned if she was a little jealous of this youthful 
rival in the affections of one for whom she had made 
many sacrifices. Twenty-four hours earlier it would 
have been difiicult to convince her that her adopted 
son would voluntarily absent himself from her soci- 


THE NEIGHBORS. 


47 


ety immediately after his return home ; but a spell 
was about him so potent as yet, that it would not be 
wise to try to break it. 

“ Let them be together,” she said to herself again 
and again ; “ his folly will cure itself.” 

Her meditations were interrupted by hearing Har- 
vey’s voice, as he ran lightly up the steps to the 
piazza. 

“ Where’s mother ? ” she heard him inquire ; and 
presently he entered the room, his face all in a glow 
of excitement. 

“ I’m going to take a luncheon and be off for a 
ride with Miss Sandoval,” he began eagerly. “ She 
tells me she is more at home on horseback than in 
the parlor, but she has no suitable dress. I have 
persuaded her, though, to ride for once without a 
riding-habit. She says she will ask her guardian to 
send for one from the city.” 

That is not necessary,” said Mrs. Everett, rising 
gravely ; I have a long cloth skirt which she can 
wear over one of her own dresses.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, mother ! I will run back 


48 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


and tell her. He approached to kiss her, inquiring 
gayly, “ Don’t you think Miss Sandoval very charm- 
ing?” 

Early the following day, Emily, accompanied by 
her father, started to visit her maternal grandmother. 
No reason was given for the sudden visit, nor did 
she need any. Her only regret was, as her mother 
had predicted, that Harvey was now at home. 

Though she had imparted her project to him as 
soon as she knew it, her cousin did not seem to un- 
derstand that she was really going, until she stood at 
the door equipped for the ride. There was still fif- 
teen minutes before the carriage would take them to 
the cars, and Harvey, catching her hand, drew her 
down a shady walk near the house. But even here 
he must talk of Isabel. 

“ How is this, ” he asked quickly, “ that you are 
leaving your cousin ? ” 

Emily smiled as she said, ‘‘I don’t think she’ll 
miss me.” 

“ But she is so affectionate and loving, wont she 
think it strange ? ” 


THE ARTFUL GIRL. 


49 


She looked grave, but made do reply. 

“ Surely you appreciate her,” he went on. “ I 
have seen many ladies, Emily, but never one to com- 
pare with her.” 

“ Have you called me out here to tell me this ? ” 
she said, trying to smile, though he afterwards re- 
membered that her lips quivered ; “ because I judged 
as much of your opinion before, and I think it is 
time for me to start.” 

“ Well, I wont detain you,” he said, in a disap- 
pointed tone ; “ you know I have always loved you as 
a dear sister, and I did hope much for you from con- 
stant intercourse with her. She has such ease and 
polish of manners, such rare beauty, and with these 
gifts such a high moral tone as are seldom combined. 
Even mother acknowledges her charms.” 

Dear aunt Everett,” was all the answer Emily 
could force her truthful lips to utter, as she hastened 
toward the house. 

Harvey gazed at her dewy eyes and flushed cheeks 
with wonder. Suddenly he laid his hand on her 

“ Stop, Emily ! ” he urged. “ It will probably 
4 


arm. 


50 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


be many months ere we meet again. Before you 
go you must account for your singular behavior. 
You surely have not the weakness to be displeased 
that I admire your cousin.” 

She stopped short in the walk, and, drawing her 
form up with an air of dignified displeasure, said, 
“You may some time regret your cruel words. 
When you do, remember that I love you so well 
I honor you for bestowing your admiration upon 
whoever is worthy of it.” 

She ran hastily on, just in time to bid her mother 

M 

and the rest of the group gathered around the door 
good-bye, not once again glancing toward the spot 
where Harvey stood, dumb with astonishment. 

“ Good-bye, mon amie,” called out Isabel, em- 
bracing her cousin with great ardor, “Remember 
your promise to write to me often.” 

Emily scarcely noticed the farewell, which so 
added to Harvey’s indignation, that he walked into 
the parlor more vexed with her than he had ever 
been in his life. He took a seat near Isabel, who 
was seized with a sudden fit of industry, and not 


THE ARTFUL GIRL. 


51 


perceiving that his aunt was in the back parlor, said, 
‘‘ So Emily promised to write to you ? " 

“ Oh yes ! ” was the laughing reply ; “ we are to be 
close correspondents, only coz has the best of it, 
having really something to tell, while I can only 
repeat the most common every-day news.” 

“ What do you mean, Isabel ? ” 

“ Why, surely,” she answered, with an air of mys- 
tery, “ you cannot be ignorant that your favorite has 
gone to meet a young gentleman in whom she is 
greatly interested. He is visiting at her grand- 
mother’s. She confessed it all to me. It is quite a 
romantic story, I assure you.” 

“ But Emily is so young ; I never have thought of 
her as a young lady old enough to form an attach- 
ment of that natyre.” 

Isabel laughed heartily, throwing back her head 
in a manner her companion thought perfectly be- 
witching. 

“ How very old-fashioned you are,” she exclaimed. 

Why, Em is three months older than I am ; and yet 
mamma had repeated offers for me to be betrothed. 


52 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


I should like to know how aged you think it is neces- 
sary for a lady to become, in order to be engaged.” 

He looked long and earnestly in her eyes ; so long, 
that she expected him to make some declaration of 
the deep affection she was convinced he felt for her, 
but was greatly disappointed when he said, “ But you 
do not suppose Emily is really engaged, or about to 
be engaged ? I have no idea her parents would con- 
sent.” 

Again she laughed ; but whatever reply she was 
about to make was interrupted by the appearance of 
her aunt, who came forward from the next room. 
Harvey knew at once, from her pale countenance, 
that she had overheard their conversationj and was 
greatly pleased to be thus relieved from the necessity 
of telling her of her daughter’s situation. 

Isabel’s cheeks and brow were crimson ; but she 
instantly recovered her self-possession. 

“ I don’t know,” began Mrs. Seaver, turning to her 
niece, “ where you acquired your information, but I 
feel it my duty to tell you it is entirely incorrect. 
Emily has gone to see her grandmother with neither 


THE ARTFUL GIRL. 


53 


the expectation nor desire of meeting any other gen- 
tleman except Mr. Sampson who takes care of my 
mother’s property, and who is more than fifty years 
of age. I was not aware, either, that she had prom- 
ised to commence a correspondence. As she carried 
her books she will have very little time out of study- 
hours to write letters, except to her parents and 
particular friends. 

The last words were said with marked emphasis, 
and Harvey was not much astonished to see the 
young lady put her handkerchief to her eyes and 
presently leave the room. He sat a few moments 
trying to introduce some new topic of conversation ; 
but his own manner was, unconsciously to himself, 
reserved, and Mrs. Seaver did not seem inclined to 
talk. 

Presently he caught sight of a dress flitting past 
the window, and, making an apology for his departure, 
suddenly left. 

He found Isabel in tears, and the next half hour 
was spent in soothing her. If he did not actually 
wipe the tears from her eyes, his manner was so 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


54 - 

affectionate and tender that it comforted her, and she 
was soon able to give words to the grief which she 
said was killing her. 

After bringing the young student to, confess again 
and again that he was and always would be her 
friend, she unfolded a tale of sorrow which excited 
both his surprise and indignation. 

“ I am the heiress,” she went on to say, “ of a 
large and valuable estate. On my mother’s death, 
my Uncle Seaver was appointed my guardian. It 
was her express wish that I should live in the style 
to which I was accustomed, and, as I was possessed 
of an ample fortune, that my wishes as to dress, etc., 
should be gratified. I will confess that I love rich 
dress and even luxurious living. It seems necessary 
to my happiness. How little dear mamma thought I 
should ever be restricted as I have been here in the 
States ; and worse than all, that I should be treated so 
cruelly by those to whose fond affection she in her 
dying moments confided me. 

“ When I first arrived I was received cordially, 
even tenderly ; but I soon perceived I was an in- 


THE ARTFUL GIRL. 


55 


truder, whose presence was unwelcome. My uncle 
soon sternly remonstrated with me on my extrava- 
gance, while my aunt grew every hour more cool and 
distant. Until a few days ago I was at a loss to know 
to what to attribute this ; but I have had painful 
occasion to learn that my absence is an event most 
ardently desired, especially by my Cousin Emily.” 

“ What do you — what can you mean ? ” eagerly 
inquired the young man, who had listened to this 
revelation in unaffected surprise. 

“ You heard her cruel words. I am to feel myself 
cut off from the position of a particular friend, though 
I came here expecting to love and be loved like a 
sister. But aunt is mistaken in regard to Emily’s 
visit. I did think, to be sure, coz is so simple and 
child-like, that she had made a confidant of her 
mother ; but it seems she is entirely ignorant that a 
young gentleman is visiting there for the purpose of 
meeting Emily ; that they have had some tender 
correspondence, on which account coz is so anxious 
to take her“letters from the post herself ; and that if 
they are not betrothed, they intend to be before long.” 


56 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS, 


“ I am more and more surprised,” faltered the col- 
legian. “Mj poor little cousin, whom I always thought 
so artless and truthful, if she has made you her 
confidant I hope you will warn her not to continue 
any acquaintance without the consent of her parents ; 
but I am altogether at a loss to imagine what motive 
my aunt and uncle can have for wishing you away.” 

She covered her face suddenly, and then said, “Are 
you not aware that they wished me to leave for school 
the day before you returned from college ? ” 

“ Still I do not understand you.” 

She shook her head. “ You are either very stupid 
or very modest,” she added, with a little pout. 

“ I prefer to think the latter ; but what has my 
modesty to do with it ? ” 

“ You are unkind to place me in so embarrassing a 
situation ; but if you must know, they were afraid I 
might interfere with the plans they have made for 
their daughter — as if I, a stranger, could expect to 
win one thought from a man who had loved my 
cousin! ” 


CHAPTER Y. 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 

They had wandered in their walk to the very 
extent of Mrs. Everett’s land, a place where Isabel 
had often accompanied Fred, who was fond of skip- 
ping stones over the surface of a small pond or lake 
bordering her garden. He stopped suddenly when 
she made the last remark, and said, quickly, “ Isabel, 
you must be shrewder than even I took you to be, if 
you have discovered all this in so short a' time. I 
will not pretend to misunderstand you ; but the very 
idea is absurd, preposterous : my aunt and uncle plan- 
ning a marriage between myself and Emily, a child 
whom I have carried in my arms and held to my 
breast in her infant slumbers ! ” He blushed crim- 
son, and then burst into a hearty laugh. 


57 


58 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ It is a good joke, I confess,” said the voice of 
Mrs. Everett, who, having just parted from her 
gardener, was walking slowly toward them. 

Isabel took no pains to conceal her vexation. 
She bit her lips, and then assuming an air of defiance 
said, haughtily, “ It seems, Mr. Everett, we are des- 
tined to have a spy upon our words and actions to-day. 
One might as well be confined to a convent as to be 
watched so incessantly.” 

The old lady had continued her walk without one 
additional word ; but her son was not disposed to 
allow this insinuation to pass without notice. 

“ You are severe. Miss Sandoval,” he said, gravely. 
“You must be aware that neither my mother nor 
my aunt could have any motive to -watch us, or 
restrict our intercourse. It was purely accidental 
our meeting any one here in this quiet spot.” 

She saw she had gone too far, and hastened to 
atone, by saying, “ Oh dear ! I am always saying 
something I ought not. How I fear I have offended 
you, wdio are almost the only friend I have in the 
States.” 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 59 

His eyes were bent on the ground. He had begun 

to think, to reason on his very short acquaintance 
> 

with her, and scarcely noticed her words. What, 
then, was his surprise, to look up, after a brief pause, 
and find her weeping bitterly. 

“ Oh, I wish I were back in Cuba ! she exclaimed, 
passionately. “ I am the most miserable, unfortunate 
creature in the world. I have spoken disrespectfully 
of your mother, and you will not forgive me : you 
call me Miss Sandoval. O, mother. ! come back and 
take your poor Isabel with you ! ” 

“ Miss Sandoval — Isabel — you distre^ me beyond 
measure. I am not offended with you ; but I think 
you are mistaken in many things. You say Emily 
told you she loved a young gentleman, and meant 
soon to enter into an engagement of marriage. Then 
you impute to our relatives motives for their ill 
treatment of you which I am confident never existed. 
Mr. Seaver has been to me a second father, and Mrs. 
Seaver always treated me like a younger brother. 
I ani sure no idea of the kind you mention ever 
entered their thoughts, any more than it has Emily’s 


60 


ART AND ARTLESSXESS. 


or mine. I allow there is a mystery somewhere. 

I thought so when Emily hade me good-bye this 

\ 

morning ; and I shall ask my aunt before night to 
explain it to my satisfaction.” 

« O Mr. Everett ! for my sake, ” laying her jew- 
elled hand on his arm, “ do not say one word con- 
cerning what I have told you. I confided my sorrows 
to you because you said you were my friend. Oh, 
promise me you will not repeat it ! Say you wiU not 
speak to your aunt ! ” 

“Well, I promise,” he answered, smiling. “I will 
certainly not speak on the subject to her at present ; 
but about Emily — I hope you will not fail to write 
her ; she is young and inexperienced.” 

“ And I am old and hardened to such things,” I 
suppose, she retorted, interrupting him. 

“You do certainly seem many years older,” he 
answered, seriously. 

He bowed as they drew near the house, and be- 
fore she had time to remonstrate, he was making 
rapid strides toward the cottage. “ I will talk with 
mother about Isabel,” he said to himself ; but some- 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 


61 


how he found it impossible to do that. On the 
slightest allusion to the subject of his .thoughts, she 
playfully turned the conversation to his studies, or 
something connected with his college course. 

It was the same when Mrs. Seaver came in after 
dinner. He made a remark like this, “ Your niece. 
Miss Sandoval, is very gifted.” 

“ Yes,” was the calm reply. “ She sings and plays 
exceedingly well.” There was no warmth, no de- 
sire to enlarge ; but just a civil answer, and then the 
subject dropped. 

o 

Just as she was leaving, she turned back, and, fix- 
ing her eyes calmly on his, said, “ I am sure you 
must believe that Emily is far too young to have a 
thought of such a meeting as was mentioned this 
morning.” 

“ I was intending to speak to you on that subject, 
but — ” He stopped, greatly confused, his promise 
and all that Isabel had said having suddenly oc- 
curred to him. 

The lady stood a minute gazing at him in surprise, 
when Mrs. Everett, with a smile, remarked, “I have 


G2 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS.- 


heard of a man who lost his heart ; but you, Harvey, 
seem to have lost your head.” 

“ I believe I have,” he answered frankly, “ and in 
order to find it I will take a long ride on Caesar.” 

“ Would Miss Sandoval like my skirt again ? ” 

He glanced at her with a curious expression. 
Was she really so anxious to have him devote his 
whole time to the lady? But she sewed on, not 
raising her eyes. 

“ No,” he said ; “ I shall go alone.” 

He returned just in time for tea, and found Abi- 
gail had made him some waffles, of which he was 
very fond. 

“ There is still time,” said the lady, to send in and 
invite Miss Sandoval. I should have done so earlier 
had I been sure you would honor us with your 
company.” 

He blushed as he remembered this was almost the 
first meal he had taken with her. “There is no 
need to send on my account,” he said ; “ I shall enjoy 
a quiet chat with you.” 

“ Now if Emily were only here,” he began, as, 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 03 

after Abigail had carried away the tray, he drew his 
chair near his mother’s recess in the bay-window, “ it 
would really be like old times. It seems scarcely 
possible she is older than Miss Sandoval.” 

Mrs. Everett smiled, laid her hand suddenly on 
his, as if she were about to speak, but then returned 
to her knitting. 

“ I wonder what she is doing now ? ” he went on. 

Who, my dear ? ” 

“ Emily.” 

Ah ! I thought you spoke of the other lady.” 

He laughed ; but it was evidently forced. 

“ If Emily were here, we would have a game of 
checkers.” 

“ But as she is not, suppose you take her place and 
read me a chapter in Thomas a Kempis.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

He drew nearer the window to catch the last rays 
of the sun. Presently he heard the gate between 
the two gardens shut softly, and drew back where 
he could see who passed without being himself seen. 
It was, as he supposed, Isabel, who walked slowly by 


64 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


the window, just glancing up, as she passed on into 
the street. 

Mrs. Everett smiled, but said nothing, while he 
went on with his reading. Soon it became too dark, 
and he proposed to his mother to take a walk. 

She agreed at once, and they were soon on their 
way, taking the opposite course from the one Isabel 
had taken. But they had not walked far, when they 
saw her sauntering toward them, apparently absorbed 
in thought. She started when they came nearer, 
stopped, and said, “ I thought, Mr. Everett, you were 
not in town.” 

“ I returned before tea,” he said, smiling ; “ Will 
you join us ? ” 

“ I was just going to the store of an errand, for 
my aunt,” she said hurriedly, “ and perhaps your 
mother would not care to go back.” 

She looked smilingly in his face, while Mrs. Ev- ‘ 
erett said, quickly, “ I can return alone.” 

“ No, indeed, mother ; and, fortunately, here comes 
Fred, who will escort his cousin home.” 

She turned away in great displeasure. Fred soon 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 


65 


came up, laughing heartily. Oh, what a joke ! ” he 
said, wdien he could speak. “ Bell saw you ride up 
the yard, and expected you in to tea. When you 
didn’t come, she was bound she’d know the reason, so 
she sailed away, as Buth calls it, through the gate, 
by the cottage windows. I met her on the main 
street, and she said she was sure she saw you behind 
the curtain. She expected you’d come right out, 
and was dreadful pouty because you didn’t ; and now 
she’s gone down to the store without seeing you. ” 

“ Oh, no ; we spoke to her,” answered Harvey, in 
some embarrassment. 

“ You must be mistaken, Fred; your cousin wasn’t 
aware Harvey had returned.” 

Wasn’t she though ? Why, she went right up 
stairs, and pinked up wonderfully. She made Ruth 
put on another plate too, she was so sure you’d be 
there. Oh, I can’t help laughing ! ” 

The silence in which mother and son walked to 
the cottage was ominous. The rest of the evening 
he was as studious to avoid Miss Sandoval’s name as 

his mother had been. 

5 


66 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Tlie next day a classmate came to visit him, and 
he did not see the young lady at all. But he heard 
of her by Fred, who was in and out of the cottage 
on his way to school. According to his story, she 
had received a package from the city containing a 
new guitar and an expensive shawl. The boy did 
not know where they came from, but he said there 
was a real row about it. Harvey’s thoughts instantly 
reverted to Isabel’s account of her uncle’s harshness 
in reference to her expenses. 

After his visitor had gone, he retired to his cham- 
ber. He wanted to be by himself to think. He 
was obliged to confess that, for the first time in his 
life, he had been in love. The thought, however, 
gave him no pleasure. On the contrary, he was im- 
patient and uneasy. The more he saw of Miss San- 
doval, the more he was convinced of his folly. And 
what did he know of her character. Nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing. A week ago, he was not aware of 
her existence. Yet she had been the means of 
alienating him from all his best friends. Poor Em- 
ily had gone away charging him with cruelty. Mr. 


THE FALSE STATEMENT. 


6T 


and Mrs. Seaver, though always kind, were far from 
being as cordial as during his former visits. His 
brow cleared a little, as he thought. Perhaps my own 
manner may in part have produced the change. I 
was indignant against my uncle for the harshness 
with which he treated his ward, and displeased with 
Emily, first, because she seemed to be guilty of rude- 
ness in leaving home while her cousin was visiting 
her, and then because she had chosen another and not 
me for her confidant. But what right have I to 
judge of their actions ? Certainly, as mother says, I 
seem to have lost both heart and head. 

He retired to his couch, with the resolve to be 
more on his guard in his attentions to Miss Sando- 
val, and then fell asleep, smiling at the thought of 
being in love with such a child as Emily. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 

Two days later Mr. Seaver returned. To Har- 
vey he brought the following short note from Emily : 

“ Dear Brother Harvey : — I believe I was 
very rude to you the other morning, and have 
grieved to think that your impressions for three long 
months will be anything but pleasant of your little 
sister Em. The only excuse I have for my naughty 
conduct is, that I was excited, and rather sorry to 
leave home just as you had come ; and so I suppose 
I was hasty and cross. 

I want you to promise to forgive me, and pray for 
me too, just as you used to do when I was a wee bit 

of a girl. . Your loving sister, Emily.” 

68 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


69 


Harvey read and re-read this short epistle, and 
thought it the sweetest letter he had ever received. 
But why did she call him brother ? It had always 
been cousin before. He forgot that he himself had 
described his affection for her as that of a brother 
rather than a cousin, and left for the cottage rather 
abruptly, that he might show it to his mother, and 
also compare it with former letters. 

Isabel was present when her uncle delivered the 
letter, and would have given her best ring to know 
what it contained, that he looked so smiling, and 
placed it so carefully in his pocket-book when he had 
perused it. 

She tried to joke him about his correspondent ; 
but he only smiled again and said, “ Dear Emily, I 
wish she were now at home.” 

Mrs. Everett wiped her spectacles, placed them 
carefully on her nose, and read the note through, 
Harvey standing by and wondering if she were try- 
ing to commit the contents to memory, that she was 
so long about it. 

Then she deliberately removed the glasses, and 


70 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


looking earnestly in his face, said, “ A tender con- 
science is a great blessing.” 

“ Yes indeed ! ” was the warm response ; “ and 
Emily’s is peculiarly tender.” 

“ I have no doubt she magnified her fault. I mean 
she thought more of it than you did,” remarked the 
lady, returning to her work. 

Harvey recalled the circumstance with some em- 
barrassment. “ I believe,” said he, after a pause, 
“ that, after all, I was the one most to blame. I called 
her to walk in the garden, and took her to task for 
rudely leaving home while she had a visitor.” 

“ You, or Miss Sandoval ? ” 

“ Miss Sandoval, of course.” 

“ I must have been excited ; for I remember I 
charged her, too, with being so mean as to resent my 
admiration of her cousin.” 

“ Ah, indeed! ^Yell, what did she say to that? ” 

“ She said some time I should be sorry that I had 
used such harsh words ; or cruel, I believe, was her 
expression. I remember I thought at the time how 
odd it was for Em and I to have a quarrel.” 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


71 


“ As far as I can judge, it was a quarrel of your 
own seeking. Emily did right to go. Indeed, I 
strongly advised her mother to send her away. The 
child regretted leaving home during your vacation.” 

“You advised her! Well, this deepens the mys- 
tery. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to stay, if she 
wished ? There are some circumstances relating to 
Emily which I should like to tell you, as I have 
promised not to repeat them to her mother.” 

“ Of what nature ? ” 

Harvey blushed. With that affectionate note in 
his hand, he was almost ashamed that he had ever 
believed it ; and yet Isabel declared her cousin had 
stated the fact as certain. He stammered, therefore, 
as he said, “ I am afraid Emma has become interested 
in a young man who is not worthy of her.” 

His mother caught off her spectacles, and looked 
him full in the face. “Harvey,” she exclaimed, 
“ you must be dreaming. Where did you pick up 
such a precious piece of scandal?” 

“ I don’t know that I am at liberty to tell you, as 
even her mother is to be kept in ignorance.” 


72 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ I should think not, indeed. It is much safer to 
stab in the dark.” 

“ But mother, let me tell you.” 

“ Not one word. I have known Emily sixteen 
years ; I can read her face like a book ; and you need 
not try to convince me that she has been guilty of 
deception. My little, artless, truthful girl. Why, 
Harvey, I thought you knew your cousin better than 
to believe that ! ” 

“ You may be sure,” he added, a little vexed, 
“ that I have been somewhat concerned ; but if you 
will not allow me to tell you what I heard, neither 
she nor I can have the benefit of your advice.” 

“If you have any duty about it, it is to Emily 
herself.” 

“ It is scarcely a subject to write about.” 

“ I agree with you.” 

“ Ho'w then shall I tell her ? ” 

“ I have heard of such vehicles as cars,” was the 
brief reply. 

He walked to the window, and drummed upon the 
glass. 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


73 


After a moment she added, “ If the affair is as se- 
rious as you suppose, which I do not for a moment 
believe, I advise 'you to return to college by the way 
of W 

The young gentleman reflected a moment, and 
then said, “I' will do it.” 

But to return to Isabel. After her walk with Mr. 
Everett on the afternoon they met his mother by the 
lake, she suddenly changed her course with the 
young man. She saw she had gone too far, and was 
artful enough to draw back. She was dignified, and 
yet affectionate, toward all about her, while toward 
him she was rather reserved than familiar. The 
change became her well. Even her aunt observed, 
and wondered at the cause. Harvey was in raptures, 
and paid her more attention than he had ever done, 
lie conversed with her about her studies, advised 
her what course to pursue at school, told her many 
anecdotes of his own college-life, and even spoke 
of the struggles he had had with his own heart, in 
resisting the temptation to sin, with which such a 
course abounds. 


74 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


On the latter subject, he spoke with much feeling; 
and she listened with tears. 

One day she remarked that she had never been so 
happy as within the last week ; and when he with a 
beaming face urged her to tell him the cause of her 
happiness she said, timidly, “ I have never had any 
one since mother died who would advise me as to my 
best good. I am gay and thoughtless, I know. Ev- 
ery thing is so different in the States to what I have 
been accustomed ; so much more religious, I mean. 
I need some one, far more than manyof my age, to 
counsel me and help me correct my faults.” 

“ But, surely, my aunt would do that.” 

Isabel sighed, glanced in his face, and then said, 
“ No advice would do me much good except from 
one I love, I mean,” she added suddenly, covering 
her face, “from one whom I respect, and in whose 
judgment I can confide.” 

“ You may always depend on my being your firm 
friend,” he responded, earnestly. 

“ You cannot realize how much I miss my mother,” 
she went on, assuming a pathetic tone. “ She knew 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


<0 


my faults, but loved me still. I am so unfortunate 
as to have inspired distrust both in my uncle and 
aunt, and through their influence, I fear in Emily 
too.” 

“ But you say she made you her confldant.” 

“ Certainly ; but that was almost a matter of ne- 
cessity. Every girl who possesses a secret, must 
have a confidant. She had no other, so she took 
me.” 

“ Does she mention the affair in her letters ? ” 

“ Oh yes ! I have received several, filled with 
accounts of the ardent lover. Really, it makes me 
smile to read them, Emily appeared so youthful and 
childlike. But she is really in love now.” 

“ I would give a good deal to read one of her let- 
ters.” 

“ I am sorry I cannot gratify you ; but she made 
me promise to burn them as soon as they were read.” 

Harvey sighed heavily. “ It will be a sad blow to 
her mother,” he thought, “ to find how she has been 
deceived in Emily.” He was just about to say to 
Isabel that he had determined, as she would not 


76 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


allow him to speak to his aunt, to visit his cousin, 
and remonstrate with her ; but he checked himself. 

Another time, and when Harvey was more marked 
in his attentions, because he perceived that his uncle 
was decidedly cool in his treatment of his guest, he 
saw that her eyes were moist, and tenderly inquired 
the cause. 

“ I was thinking,” she answered, “ how thankful I 
ought to be that I have one good friend ; otherwise 
my heart would break. I have been accustomed 
from my infancy to words and tones of endearment. 
My father was passionately fond of his only child, 
while dear mother was perhaps, too loving and in- 
dulgent. ’ Even the good old darkies vied with each 
other to do me a kindness. But now,” she sighed 
deeply, “ all is cold, harsh, and forbidding.” 

“ Why do you not tell jmur uncle this ? He was 
always kind and generous.” 

She raised her large black eyes, looked fixedly in 
his as she replied, “ I have appealed to him by the 
love he bore my mother ; but ah ! it is worse than 
useless.” 


-THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


77 . 


“ I am distressed that it is so,” he said, after a 
pause, and could scarcely credit it of such a man 
as my uncle, unless I had seen it with my own eyes.” 

Just at this moment a servant opened the door, 
and in a familiar tone, which surprised the collegian, 
said, “ Isabel, your uncle wants you in the library.” 

Her color came and went. He could not doubt 
she was greatly distressed. 

“ I will go presently,” she said to the girl, who 
stood with a curious expression of countenance, 
waiting for her answer. 

As soon as the door was shut, she sank on the 
sofa, and pressed both hands to her heart. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked. “ What distresses you 
so?” 

“One of those dreadful lectures,” she faltered, 
beginning to sob. 

“Isabel,” he urged, taking her hand, “I cannot 
stand passively by and see you abused. Give me a 
right to do so, and I will demand satisfaction, or, at 
least, an explanation of my uncle for this cruel 
treatment.” . 


78 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ The man’s waiting about the bill,” said the ser- 
vant, opening wide the door again. 

The young girl, with an ardent glance at her 
lover, hurried from the room. 

I will know what this means before I sleep,” he 
said, with great warmth. “ Isabel must not, shall 
not — ” 

“Harvey,” said Mrs. Seaver, coming in softly, 
and placing her hand on his arm, “ in memory of 
old times, will you do me a trifling favor ? ” 

She was greatly agitated, more than he ever re- 
membered to have seen her. Without a moment’s 
hesitation he answered, “ Yes.” 

“ There is a man in the library who has been here 
twice before, and who is disposed to be violent. I 
want you to go into the small room adjoining, where 
you can hear what is passing, and be on hand should 
anything unforeseen occur.” 

“But Isabel! Why is she there? She is in 
danger,” he exclaimed, earnestly. 

“ Hush ! no ; her uncle will protect her. Now go 


THE NARROW ESCAPE. 


79 


at once ; but be sure not to make your presence 
known until there is real occasion.” 

She conducted him cautiously along through the 
back parlor, to a small apartment used as a sewing- 
room. Here, with his seat near the door, which was 
locked on his side, he could hear all that passed 
within, without the least difficulty. 

“Rather too much like an eavesdropper,” he 
whispered, laughing; but with her finger on her 
lips, she glided from the room. The first words he 
heard, fixed his attention. 


CHAPTER VIL 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSUEE. 

“ 1 CAN, and will, pay part of the bill,, at the time 
I mentioned,” said Mr. Seaver, calmly. 

“ Then she shall go to prison,” cried the man, “ for 
obtaining goods by false pretenses. A prison is good 
enough for such a hussy as she.” 

“ It is of no use for you to talk so,” the gentleman 
responded, in a soothing tone. “You remember 
when you brought the first bill, I explained to you 
that my niece had no property, or barely sufficient 
to pay the expenses of her education. You must 
blame yourself for trusting her. I tell you again I 
will pay part, and you may take back the guitar, 
which is quite too extravagant for her to use.” 

Isabel began to cry aloud. “ O uncle ! I’ve sold 

80 


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“ You hare promised that many times, my dear.” 






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THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


81 


the old one, and I can’t do without that. I’d rather 
give up anything than the guitar.” 

“ I’m afraid you’ll have to give up all he will con- 
sent to take,” he replied, in a softened tone. “ I have 
already paid larger sums than I can afford, to settle 
your bills. Duty to my own family compels me to 
say you must deny yourself articles I cannot procure 
for my own children.” 

“ Just this once, uncle. I’ll never buy anything 
again without first asking you- or aunt.” 

“ You have promised that many times, my dear ; 
but with the first temptation you have repeated the 
offence.” 

“ I’ll sell Elsie, then ; I wont give up the guitar,” 
was the loud, passionate cry. 

“ Ah, there it is again,” said the man, in a harsh, 
insulting tone. “ She told me she had an immense 
property ; but that you were trying to cheat her out 
of it ; that she had an agent, who was coming to the 
States to force you to treat her better ; and that if 
you would not give her money to pay her honest 

bills, she would sell some of her niggers.” 

6 


82 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


' “ Is this true, Isabel ? Have you dared traduce 
your uncle to a stranger in this manner ? ” 

She made no reply, except to cry louder than 
before. ‘ .• 

“ Well,' I ' can’t waste my time talking. I want 
to know how you’ll settle,” urged the man, in a 
sullen tone. 

Mr. Seaver said, “ I can make you no better offer 
than I made before. The guitar is not injured ; that 
you can take at the original cost, and also the shawl. 
The Indian scarf, I think, ought to bring — ” 

“ O uncle ! you wont take away my beautiful 
scarf!” 

■ “ If you’ll take my opinion, miss, you’d do a sight 
better to go back to them niggers you tell so much 
about.” 

“ When you are able, Isabel,” continued her uncle, 
paying no attention to the rude speech of his visitor, 
“ you can Readily replace it. The dresses, perhaps, 
Mrs. Seaver can dispose of. I have paid out so 
much from my own pocket, I cannot afford to keep 
them even for her use. When this is done,” turning 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


83 


to the merchant, “ I shall probably be able to pay 

• the balance ; but I warn you I will never do it again. 
You have no legal claim on me now.” 

“ I s’pose ’twouldn’t be so very agreeable to have 
your niece carried off to prison,” retorted the other, 
angrily. ‘ • - 

“ Even to avoid that, I shall not interfere after this.” 
Isabel sobbed louder than ever. 

“Well, I’ll be on hand then,” said the visitor. 
“ Good-day, sir.” 

As soon as Harvey heard the door shut, he was 
about to rush from the house, but was arrested by 
the sound of his own name. 

• Isabel was speaking, and greatly as he had been 
surprised before, no language could express his as- 
tonishment now. 

“ I shall be married soon, uncle,” she said. “ Har- 
vey is rich, and he has promised that I shall have 
all I want.” 

“ If Harvey has promised that,” said the gentle- 
man, in the same unirapassioned tone, “ his fortune, 
however large, will last but a short time ; but I 


84 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


doubt his having made such a pledge. I have come 
to the painful knowledge, my poor deluded child, that 
your word cannot be depended upon. You have 
caused me more sorrow of heart, more anxiety, more 
solicitude about your future, in the few weeks you 
have been here, than my daughter Emily in her 
whole life.” 

“ I don’t know why I am always to be compared 
to Emily,” was the sullen reply. 

I wish I could justly compare you,” he said, with 
the utmost tenderness of tone. “But Emily, though 
young, loves her Saviour, and tries to regulate her 
life by his commands ; while you, I fear, have no 
principles of right by W’hich to guide your actions. 
O Isabel! why will you not take warning by 
your mother’s example ? Why will you not give up 
your self-will, your vanity and extravagance, and 
become a blessing to those connected with you ? ” 

There was no reply, and he went on. “ God has 
been good to you. He has given you talents by 
which you can make yourself useful. It has been 
my prayer night and day that you may consecrate 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


85 


yourself to his service. Believe me, dear child, you 
will never be truly happy, until you have done so.” 

“ I shall be happy when I am married to Harvey.” 
The tone was insolent, and the listener, who started 
as if he was stung, wondered at the patience of the 
guardian as he said, gently, “ No marriage is happy 
without the blessing of God. Your husband would 
soon find you had deceived him, and then his affec- 
tion for you would cease.” 

•He waited to hear no more, but, seizing his hat, 
made his way out by a back passage to the cottage- 
gate. Once at home, he rushed to his own room, 
and locked the door. 

“ What an escape ! ' How grossly I have been de- 
ceived ! What a fool I have been ! ” were words he 
repeated again and again. “ How could my aunt, 
how could my mother sit by, and see me so taken in 
by a handsome face, and bewitching smiles, and not 
warn me.” 

These and similar inquiries occupied him for the 
'' next half hour. He was really mortified and hum- 
bled to think of his conduct. He wished he had 


86 ART and' artlessness. 

* 

passed the vacation in his college-room, in travelling, 
— any where, or any how, except as he had done. 
But as it was too late to amend the past, he deter- 
mined this should be a lesson for the future. He 
wondered, whenever he thought of it, that Isabel 
had succeeded in deceiving him. Her conduct 
seemed now to be all duplicity and art. First her 
love of admiration had led her to seek his favor; 
then learning or fancying he was rich, the desire to 
be free from the restraint of poverty would induce 
her to employ every device to secure his affection. 

To his uncle and aunt, he felt that a most humble 
apology was due. He had listened to the slander of 
a stranger, and believed stories of their harshness 
with the evidence of a whole life of Christian kind- 
ness to the contrary. 

And then Emily, — ah, Emily ! how cruelly he had 
wronged her ; how nobly had she resisted the temp- 
tation to expose the character of her cousin ! He 
tried to recall her very words, “ I love you so much, 
that I honor you for your admiration of whoever is 
worthy.” How kindly she had answered his humili- 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


87 


ating insinuation. He had hardly thought her capa- 
ble of it. 

Then, with almost a cry of delight, he said to 
himself, “ Perhaps, too, the story of Emily’s attach- 
ment to another is false. I earnestly hope for her 
sake it is so. She is too artless, too confiding to 
suspect wrong, and her love may have been given 
unconsciously to herself. ' I will see her at once. It 
is only two days before I thought of leaving. Ah ! 
what a vacation this has been ! ” 

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, he 
announced his attention to his mother of leaving for 

W in the afternoon cars. “ But first,” he added, 

in a serious tone, “ I must have an interview with 
Mr. SeavQr and Miss Sandoval.” 

She started, but instantly recovered her self-pos- 
session. He could see, however, as he stood ear- 
nestly regarding her, that her hand shook, and that 
she was making a great eflTort to appear calm. 

He waited a moment, till Abigail had removed the 
breakfast, and then, drawing a taboret to her feet, 


88 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


said, “ I feel like a naughty boy, mother, who ought 
to be whipped.” 

This was so different a commencement to a com- 
munication she had been schooling herself to hear, 
that she caught off her glasses to see him more dis- 
tinctly. 

“ I believe I left all my common sense in my col- 
lege-room,” he went on. “ I am mortified more than 
I can tell you, that I have been deceived by an art- 
ful girl, almost to the extent of asking her to be my 
wife.” 

Mrs. Everett clasped her hands suddenly, and 
then bent down and kissed his cheek. 

“ Thank God, my son,” she said, “ that you have 
been preserved from an act which would^have em- 
bittered your whole life.” 

“But, mother, you helped it on — my admiration 
for Miss Sandoval.” 

“ Because, as I told Mrs. Seaver, I believed you 
were not entirely a fool, and that it was only neces- 
sary for you to be her constant companion for a 
fortnight, to prevent any desire to continue the ac- 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


89 


quaintance longer. For Emily I did not think so 
long a trial necessary, as the dear child soon ascer- 
tained that while her cousin was beautiful in person, 
she was wholly corrupt in morals. I am more grate- 
ful than I can tell you, that my predictions have 
been verified. Your aunt has been exceedingly 
anxious lest you should commit yourself, and then 
feel bound by a sense of honor to fulfil your en- 
gagement.” 

“ I owe my aunt more than I can tell you.” 

He then repeated in detail the events of the pre- 
vious afternoon, after which, taking his hat, he 
walked slowly to his uncle’s house. 

“ Is Mr. Seaver in the library ! ” he inquired of 
the servant. 

Fortunately the gentleman was in. He looked 
pale and careworn, and Harvey thought he seemed 
to shrink from a communication which he evidently 
expected. 

“I leave for W this afternoon,” he began, 

frankly, “ and will take any letters or packages you 
may wish to send to Emily.” 


90 


ART AND artlessness; 


‘‘ Is not your trip an unexpected one ? ” 

“ It is certainly rather hastened by circumstances ; 
but I cannot leave without asking your pardon for — 
for—” 

Mr. Seaver smiled. “I am not aware that you 
have offended me in any way.” 

Mrs. Seaver at this moment opened the door, but 
was retreating when she saw them engaged, but the 
collegian sprang forward and caught her hand. 

“ You have won my everlasting gratitude,” he 
said, warmly. 

’ He then, greatly to the surprise of the gentleman, 
who knew nothing of his wife’s project, related what 
he had overheard, and confessed, with much feeling, 
his sorrow at his own conduct. 

“ I am quite willing to forgive you for all thoughts 
of me,” said the lady, smiling, “ and Emily will tell 
you frankly how far you have offended her. I 
think she is not very vindictive.” 

“ I have one more task to perform ; I must see Miss 
Sandoval before I go. Don’t start aunt. ‘ Richard 
is himself again.’ I have but a single question to 


THE SU4)DEN EXPOSURE. 


91 


ask her, and that does not relate to herself. As for 
the sudden termination of our acquaintance, perhaps 
her conscience may give her a hint of the cause. 
Shall I find her in the parlor ? ” 

Isabel had heard his voice inquiring for her guard- 
ian, and entertained no doubt her lover had come to 
sue for her hand. When, therefore, Mrs. Seaver, 
after a glance into the back parlor, said, “ Yes, she 
is here,” she threw herself into an interesting atti- 
tude, with her arm on the end of the sofa, and a 
handsomely-bound Bible open in her lap. 

“ Good morning,” she said, rising in seeming con- 
fusion. She noticed at once that he seemed serious, 
and thoughtful, and indeed he was so much affected 
by her duplicity, with the blessed volume in her 
hand whose rules she had so grossly disregarded, that 
he could scarcely return her salutation. 

With an effort recovering his self-possession, he 
took a seat near her, and asked, “ Can you spare me 
a few minutes ? I want to ask you a question.” 

Isabel raised' her lustrous orbs and looked in his 
face, in a manner peculiar to herself, and then, letting 


92 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


them fall, with a timid, frightened air, softly an- 
swered, “ My time this morning is entirely at your 
disposal. 

He started, and partly rose. . He felt as he had 
always imagined he should feel were he in the power 
of a charmed serpent. It required a violent effort 
to continue the conversation. 

“ I have a great curiosity,” he rejoined, to see one 
of Emily’s letters. Have you received any since I 
saw you.” 

have not,” she answered, in a vexed tone, 
much disappointed at the nature of the question. 

“ What is the name of her lover ? ” 

“ I am not at liberty to tell.” 

“I have a very special reason for asking these 
questions,” he said, warmly; “and as Emily has 
always heretofore made me her confidant, I don’t 
think she would object. You say she has written 
you often on the subject. You have been very unre- 
served in stating the facts ; can’t you tell me his 
name ? ” 

“ I don’t see what business you have to come 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


93 


here and ask to see me, and then talk about Emily. 
But,” she added, with a searching glance, “ perhaps 
my uncle has been prejudicing you against me.” 

He paused a moment, scarcely able to keep from 
smiling at her too evident disappointment, and then 
said, “I do not remember that he mentioned your 
name.” 

“ Then what did you come here for ? ” she asked, 
in her natural tone. 

“ To find out whether all is true that you have 
told me about my cousin. I must either get this 
knowledge from you ; or you must release me from 
my promise not to speak to her mother.” 

“ Well, what do you want to know ?” 

“ Are you sure she has a lover at all ? ” 

“ Ah, I see your jealousy is excited ! ” 

He had never seen the Spanish look in her before, 
and he would not gratify her by denying her assertion. 

“ You are too late, sir ! ” she added, with a forced 
smile. “ Her affections are given to another ; and be- 
sides, she told me nothing would induce her to marry 
you. She said she must always be able to look with 


94 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


great respect on the man she should call her husband ; 
but that you had always been so familiar, joining in 
her childish plays, that she could only love you as a 
brother.” 

He bowed. “ I accept the decision,” he said, with 
mock gravity ; “ but as I am not her suitor, that is 
nothing to the point. There is no doubt in your own 
mind but she went to W to meet this gentle- 

man, and that she did so without the knowledge of 
her parents?” 

“ I have given you my word that it is so. Is not 
that sufficient ? ” 

“ I confess I should have been glad to peruse one 
of her letters on the subject as additional proof. But 

as that is out of the question, I must go to W 

and see the gentleman for myself” 

She started, and colored violently ; which, unfortu- 
nately, he ascribed to her regret at his sudden de- 
parture. 

“ As you will probably leave for school before my 
graduation, it will be some time before we meet 
again.” 


THE SUDDEN EXPOSURE. 


95 


He held out his hand, spoke his adieu, and was gone 
before she had power to reply. Here, then, was an 
end to all her brilliant expectations of persuading 
her lover to marry her at once, and remove her for- 
ever from the tyranny of her cruel guardian. She 
rushed from the parlor, upsetting the music-stool 
and a cricket in her haste, and, locking herself in 
her own chamber, gave way to a passionate burst of 
tears. 

When the dinner-bell rang, she waited so long 
that her aunt sent a servant to summon her, and 
at last she appeared, with flushed cheeks and swollen 
eyes. 

The meal passed in silence, even Fred’s lively 
spirits being checked by the gloomy countenance of 
his cousin. They were just rising from table when 
Harvey ran to the door for letters to Emily. Isabel 
had barely time to retreat to the sewing-room be- 
fore he entered. “ Good-by ! ” he said, cheerfully, 
“ Only three months, and I shall be through col- 
lege.” 

Mrs. Seaver quickly tied up a small package, and 


96 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


with many messages from all to the absent one, the 
young man took his leave. 

Early the next week Isabel also started for school, 
where, under the care of Mrs. Summers, we must 
leave her for the present. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 

In the society of her grandmother and Mr. Samp- 
son, who had known her from a baby, Emily Seaver 
passed one day after another in quiet enjoyment. 

Naturally ardent and impulsive, like her cousin, 
had she not been early restrained by Christian prin- 
ciples, she might to some extent have imitated her 
grosser faults. But fortunately for her, from her 
very birth she had been a child of prayer, while a 
tender mother’s watchful solicitude had shielded her 
heart from many corrupting influences. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Seaver had carefully guarded 
their beloved daughter from the first dawning of de- 
ception. Both by precept and example they taught 

her the beauty of perfect truthfulness, and enforced 

7 97 


98 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


this doctrine by the word of God, which they consid- 
ered a sufficient rule both of faith and practice. 

Blessed with such teachings and with such an ex- 
ample before her as that set by Mrs. Seaver, who 
was a model of Christian refinement, it was not 
strange that Emily had attained her sixteenth birth- 
day as artless and truthful in character as she was 
lovely in person ; nor that Harvey, who had watched 
with such engrossing interest the opening of this 
beautiful bud, should be surprised to find it had 
unfolded into a flower of exquisite loveliness. 

Within the last year, too, by her own active faith, 
she had entered into covenant with God, and hence- 
forth set her standard of piety in conformity to the 
command of her dear Saviour. Taught to fear the 
first approach to sin, she had become extremely con- 
scientious. “ Is this my duty ? ” “ Would such an act 
be right ? ” were questions to be asked and answered 
before she could be satisfied with any course of con- 
duct. 

Even the youngest of her companions were aware 
of Emily’s unyielding endeavors to do what she 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


99 


thought her duty, and respected her scruples so far 
that in any doubtful case they were sure to leave her 
company unsought. 

Another reason, too, for the same course, was the 
well-known fact that where Emily did not feel her- 
self competent to decide, she always appealed to her 
mother for advice, and by many of these young per- 
sons Mrs. Seaver w^as considered unnecessarily strict. 

The influence of Mrs. Everett w^as decidedly 
favorable to the expanding mind of the young girl. 
Naturally of a lively disposition, her society was 
exceedingly attractive to young people. Even Fred 
thought there was no better fun than to run to the 
cottage for a chat with Aunt Mary, while upon every 
point of moral training her opinions strictly coincided 
with those of her niece, who indeed, had gained them 
from her. I have already spoken of the great stress 
Mrs. Everett placed upon truth, as a necessary char- 
acteristic in the formation of a noble character. This 
she had carefully inculcated in her adopted son, and 
was rewarded by finding him as great an enemy to 
ai’t or deception of any kind as herself. Perhaps 


100 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


those who are strictly truthful both in their words and 
conduct, are less apt to suspect deception in others. 
Certainly Harvey, judging Miss Sandoval’s words by 
his own, or her conduct by Emily’s, gave her credit 
for being far more natural and truthful than she 
deserved, and therefore was the more surprised and 
disgusted when he found her addicted to the most 
dreadful habit of lying. 

For many weeks, indeed months, after he parted 
from her, she was intimately associated in his mind 
with the scene in the library, which in imagination 
he had often pictured to himself. His uncle, sitting 
calm but earnest ; the angry merchant, insolent and 
threatening ; and the guilty Isabel, unyielding, disap- 
pointed, and sullen. 

On his way to W he had time to reflect, 

which he did with immense chagrin, on the character 
of the young lady who had first won his affections 
(he would not now dignify his transient passion by 
the name of love), and of his own folly in yielding 
to her fascinations until sure there was a depth of 
moral and religious principle such as must of neces- 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


101 


sity adorn a lady to whom he would intrust his own 
happiness. Whenever he did so, he found himself 
comparing the cousins, and invariably arriving at the 
conclusion that in everything that was truly lady-like, 
refined and Christian, Emily was vastly superior. 

He would have given much to recall his parting 
interview with her. He had written, indeed, to tell 
her he regretted his rudeness, and freeing her from 
the least possible blame ; but yet he feared it had left 
an unfavorable impression on her mind. 

He reached W by the late train, and drove 

directly to the principal hotel. At an early hour the 
next morning, having ascertained the street on which 
Mrs. Merwin resided, he started forth to make a call 
upon her. This lady was own sister to Mrs. Everett, 
and, though not a blood-relation of his own, he being 
connected with her through her husband, yet he had 
often met her, both at Mrs. Seaver’s and at his own 
home. 

He was looking carefully at the numbers, when he 
saw a young girl, a few doors in advance of him, with 
a neat straw hat tastefully trimmed with blue ribbon. 


102 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


come tripping down the steps. She stood one mo- 
ment, as if hesitating which way to go, then, with a 
cry of joy, she recognized her cousin. 

“ Why, Harvey ! ” she exclaimed, in an animated 
tone, “ how did you come here ; have you brought 
anybody -with you ? ” 

“ I came in the late train,” he answered, smiling, as 
he held fast both her hands. “ I had company enough 
too, but no one from home.” 

“ Well, come in ; grandma will be pleased enough 
to see you. I was just going out for a walk. How 
glad I am that I did not miss you.” 

She ushered him into the neat breakfast-room 
where the old lady was sorting her clothes from the 
wash. 

After many inquiries concerning the friends whom 
he had left, Emma, who had scarcely removed her 
eyes from his face, said, archly, “ But really, Harvey, 
why did you come to W ; have you any busi- 

ness here ? ” 

“ Yes, I have,” was his grave reply. “ I expect 
to remain two days, before I leave for college.” 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


103 


“ Oh, I am so glad ! I was afraid I should lose your 
whole vacation. Has Isabel gone to school yet ? ” 

“ No ; she goes next week, 1 believe.” 

“As your cousin has never visited W per- 

haps he would like to accompany you on your walk,” 
said Mrs. Merwin. 

They soon started away, Emily declaring that 
during the last fortnight she had visited every street 
where there was anything worthy of note, and there- 
fore would make a capital guide. He held her hand 
as they went down the steps, and continued to do so, 
as they had been accustomed to walk at home but 
presently he said, “ You had better take my arm, 
Emily ; you are getting to be quite a young lady.” 

“ Oh, no ! I hope not ; I feel as much a child as 
ever ; and I want to remain so for a long time yet.” 

Harvey laughed. “ This,” he thought, “ does not 
seem much like a young lady who is contemplating 
matrimony.” 

“ Have you walked about in this strange place 
alone ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes. Grandmother seldom goes into the street 


104 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


except on her way to church ; and Mr. Sampson is 
always engaged.” 

“ And is your acquaintance limited to two per- 
sons ? ” 

“ Oh no ! I have visited here before, and know 
■ some of the girls by sight, but, — I am afraid you will 
think I am hard to jilease, — but really I had quite 
as lief have my own company as theirs.” 

“ Emily,” — he spoke seriously, — “I told you I 
had business here ; have you no curiosity to be told 
what it is ? ” 

She smiled as she answered, “ I am always pleased 
with whatever interests you.” 

“ My business relates solely to you. I came to ask 
you some questions, and I am sure you will under- 
stand my motive to be my affection for you.” 

“ Certainly ; you are my brother, you know.” She 
looked in his face so frankly as she said this, he could 
not avoid contrasting her with Isabel. 

“Well, I have heard a strange story, — you wall 
probably know my authority, — that you came to 
W for the avowed purpose of meeting a young 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


■ 105 


gentleman to whom you wished to become engaged 
to be married, and that all this was to be kept secret 
from your parents.” 

Poor Emily ! Her eyes opened wider and wider 
as he -svent on ; and when he ceased speaking she 
still gazed at him, with such an expression of wonder 
that he at once begun to doubt the truth of the 
rumor. 

Presently, however, a bright spot appeared on her 
cheek ; her eyes flashed as he had never seen them 
before. She drew herself up as on the morning she 
left home, and exclaimed, “ And you, Harvey Ever- 
ett, calling yourself my brother, believed this. If 
all the world had slandered you in my hearing, 
would I have believed them ? Oh, how meanly you 
must think of me ! ” 

Her chin quivered, and he saw that it required a 
great effort to retain her self-control. 

“ But, Emily, I do not believe it now ; I must ex- 
plain. Isabel told me the day you left that you 
assented to your mother’s wish that you should visit 
your grandmother’s solely on that account ; that 


106 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


you wrote her frequently and fully on the subject ; 
and that you were fairly in love.” 

The color deepened in her cheek, but she made no 
reply. 

“ I have learned by painful experience;” he went 
ion, “ that Isabel has no regard for her word. When 
I discovered that, all her beauty and her charms 
faded at once. She lost her power to please when I 
found her artful and devoid of principle ; but I saw 
her just before I left, for the express purpose of 
learning the truth of her statement ; for she had for- 
bidden me to speak to your mother, and I intended 
to see and remonstrate with you, when she reiterated 
all that she had before said.” 

Still not a word, though he could see that her lips 
curled in scorn. 

“ As I am unburdening my heart,” he continued, 
I may as well tell you all she said. She repeated 
an expression you used in reference to me, that you 
would never marry one with whom you had played 
so familiarly, that nothing therefore would induce 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


107 


you to call me husband, since I was not entitled to 
your respect.” 

“ And did you, do you believe,” she asked, almost 
angrily, “ that I, a child scarcely in my teens, spoke 
or even thought of marriage ; that I made such a girl 
as Isabel my confidant ; that I ever had one thought 
of you, my brother, in that connection ? ” 

O, Harvey ! I have indeed fallen in my own 
esteem when you, who have known me so many 
years, could believe all this, on the testimony of a 
stranger.” 

She laughed hysterically ; and then, losing her 
self-command, burst into tears. 

“ I must go back ; I cannot go on,” she said ; and 
before he could stop her, she darted away like a 
young fawn. 

For an hour or more he wandered about the streets, 
more vexed with himself than he had ever been in 
his life ; then he returned to Mrs. Merwin’s, but found 
the old lady had not seen her grand-daughter since 
she went out with him. On inquiring of the ser- 
vants, they found she liad come in and gone at once 


108 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


to her chamber, and there her grandmother followed 
her. 

When they were summoned to dinner, Emily sent 
an excuse. She had no appetite. As Mr. Sampson 
was present, no remark was made. Harvey tried to 
carry on a conversation with the agent, but was thor- 
oughly uncomfortable. He was astonished at his 
own credulity in giving credit for one moment to 
such a rumor of one whose character had always 
been so open ; of one, especially, whose every thought, 
almost, had been confided to her mother. Ah, how 
much better, he repeated to himself again and again, 
did mother know and trust her ! Then he was still 
more vexed that what he now felt was personal pique 
at her supposed statement of her own feelings toward 
him, had influenced him to repeat so absurd a report. 

I do seem,” he thought, “ to have left my senses in 
the recitation-room. I do not wonder Emily was 
indignant. I wish she would come down, and let 
me comfort her.” 

It was not until dusk that his wish was gratified ; 
just as an unexpected visitor had retired the young 


THE ARTLESS CHILD. 


109 


girl came in timidly, and took a low seat near her 
grandmother’s chair. 

Harvey addressed some commonplace remark to 
her ; but her voice trembled, as she answered briefly, 
and he dared not pursue the subject. 

Mrs. Merwin talked of her sister, made inquiries 
concerning college life, and his choice of a profession ; 
but it was so evidently with an effort that he, in order 
to pass away the time, walked to the secretary, and 
began to examine the books. 

Presently, to his great relief, Mrs. Merwin was 
summoned -from the room. “ Emily,” he said, ap- 
proaching her chair, “ have I offended past all hope 
of forgiveness ? ” 

She covered her face for a moment, and then said, 
“If I had not a heavenly Friend to whom I could 
tell my trials, I don’t know what I should do.” 

He turned away, greatly affected, but instantly re- 
covering himself, said, “My mother never would 
hear anything against you, Emily.” 

“ But you, you turned against your sister at the 
flrst word. I saw it, felt it, before I left home. You 


-110 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


wanted me to be like her. You thought me rude to 
leave. O, Isabel ! is this the return you make for 
all my parents have endured on your account ? ” 

She rose, and tried to hasten from the room. He 
caught her hand, which she instantly withdrew. He 
felt it now. She could never more be a child with 
him. 

“ Emily,” he urged, “ what shall I say ? Though 
I have been very foolish, I came here with the best 
of motives. To no one else have I repeated what 
I heard.” 

“ Because no one else would have believed it,” she 
said quickly. “Even Fred would have laughed in 
Isabel’s face.” 

“ Perhaps that is so ; but I have told you I regret 
it exceedingly. Will you not forgive me ? ” 

Mrs. Merwin at this moment entering, she made 
no reply, and presently the bell rung for family 
prayer, after which Emily instantly retired. 

Mr. Everett scarcely slept till morning. He was 
resolved not to go back to college until he had once 
more gained his cousin’s confidence. He arose late. 


THE ALTLESS CIlILl). 


Ill 


fearing he had overslept. Just as he was leaving 
his chamber he heard a carriage drive away from 
the door. No allusion was made to it, however, un- 
til nearly half an hour later, when Mr. Sampson 
returned from the railroad station, and said, “Well 
Mrs. Merwin, I saw our young friend safely off.” 

Harvey started. “ Where is Emily ? ” he asked 
quickly. 

“ On the road to P answered the gentleman 

laughing. 

“ She told me yesterday she had received news 
from home and must see her mother,” explained the 
old lady. 

The young collegian ate no more breakfast. In 
less than an hour he, too, was in the cars on his way 
to college. His heart prompted him to turn in the 
opposite direction, but there was one serious objec- 
tion. Miss Sandoval was still in P . 


CHAPTER IX. 


FORGIVING INJURY. 

For the first few miles of Emily’s ride her heart 
was filled with resentment towards Isabel. She now 
saw plainly that it was to serve her own purposes her 
cousin had endeavored to prejudice Harvey against 
her. “ I can never forgive her,” she said, earnestly, 
to herself. “ I never can have the least respect 
for one who not only falsifies her 'word without hes- 
itation, but so basely returns the kindness lavished 
upon her.” 

But it was not long before such feelings softened, 
and she found herself making excuses for the moth- 
erless girl. Emily had sat at the feet of Him who 
says, “ Love your enemies, bless them that curse 
you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


113 


them that despitefully use you and persecute you.” 
She remembered this injunction of her dear Saviour, 
and breathed an earnest prayer that she might be 
forgiven for her resentment, and led to feel toward 
the erring one only pity and a desire for her repent- 
ance. 

Toward Harvey she was more grieved than an- 
gry. As she had told him, not all the world could 
have convinced her that he had so suddenly forgotten 
all his principles of honor and manliness as to con- 
tract a disgraceful connection with a young woman ; 
and to her pure mind the crime of which he had 
thought her guilty was far worse. Then her heart 
ached as she thought that even for one moment he 
had cherished the idea that she would, to any one, 
particularly to a stranger, use his name in such a 
connection as marriage with herself. Why, a thought 
of the possibility of such an event had never once 
occurred to her ! 

The young girl probably felt more than usually 
sensitive on this point from the fact that her mother 

had carefully guarded her from associates who would 

8 


114 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


fill her head with the idea so common to many young 
persons of both sexes, that marriage is the chief end of 
life. And as she never heard such subjects discussed 
either at home or at the cottage, she shrank from all 
mention of them, as what did not yet concern her. 

When Isabel came, and began to talk of beaux 
and matrimony, she was shocked. This was what 
made her so thoughtful when she repeated the story 
to her father. 

Mrs. Seaver at once conversed with her niece, in- 
sisting that such subjects should be avoided, stating, 
what had more effect on Isabel than the wish of her 
aunt, that whatever Emily knew she repeated to 
her. 

When the young traveller reached home, she 
found her cousin’s trunks packed for an early start 
on Monday morning, and as it was now Saturday 
night, there would be little opportunity for inter- 
course between them. When, therefore, the first 
surprise of the meeting was over, her arrival being 

wholly unexpected, she advanced to Isabel, and, giv- 

% 

ing her hand kindly, said, “ I hope you are well.” 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


115 


“ Then Harvey has not told her,” was the young 
girl’s instant thought ; for the idea of Emily suffering 
as she had done and so readily forgiving the offence, 
was to her an impossibility. Poor Isabel had yet to 
learn the sweet peace that fills the soul when, having 
freely forgiven those who have injured us, we can 
claim the promise of our Father in heaven : “ If ye 
forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father 
will also forgive you.” 

Mrs. Seaver, with a mother’s quick discernment, 
saw that some unusual event had occurred to bring 
her daughter home. That it was in some way con- 
nected with Harvey, and that in a manner painful to 
speak of, she also suspected the first time the young 
man’s name was mentioned. She therefore, during 
the evening meal and the conversation that followed 
it, took pains to divert attention from that theme. 
She had many questions to ask of her mother, of 
her faithful agent Mr. Sampson, and also of many 

acquaintances in W ; and then Emily was tired 

with her long ride, so that her mother accompanied 
her to her chamber at an early hour. 


116 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Isabel in the course of the evening only learned 
that her cousin had enjoyed her visit to her grand- 
mother ; that she was much surprised to see Harvey ; 
that he staid one night, and that she left early' in the 
mofning for home, though tlie old lady urged her to 
stay until her mother came for her, as had been pro- 
posed. Beyond this all was suspicion. The young 
man probably judged for himself that there was no 
lover in question, and did not deem it necessary to 
repeat her story. But what -would he think of her, 
when he found she had told so many falsehoods ? 
But she did not stop long to worry herself about 
that. Harvey had gone without revealing his affec- 
tion, and there was an end of him. Besides, she had 
many cares at the present moment. Her guardian, 
finding she paid not the least attention to his wishes 
regarding the spending of money, and that she was 
ungrateful for the sacrifices he had made in order to 
pay her bills, beside what he had ever conceived pos- 
sible, resolved to allow her to feel the pressure of 
her poverty, instead of calling on his wife and chil- 
dren to deny themselves for her sake. 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


IIT 


He informed her that he had already written to 
Mrs. Summers that he could not authorize one cent 
of expense during the coming term except what was 
an absolute necessity, and that he would be held re- 
sponsible for no bills. Then in regard to her past 
extravagance, he had already written to the agent, 
that her expenses had so far greatly exceeded her 
income, though not a cent had been charged for the 
care and trouble he had had, or for her residence in 
his family. He urged that the estate should be set- 
tled as quickly as possible, and whatever funds could 
be obtained for it should be placed to her credit in a 
bank. 

Once more in the most tender, fatherly manner he 
urged her to change her course of conduct ; above 
all to choose Christ for her portion, assuring her that 
the joys of religion were far beyond any she had 
ever experienced from the pleasures of the world. 

On Sabbath afternoon, as they were returning from 
church, where the young West Indian, with her bril- 
liant beauty, and her peculiar style of dress always 
attracted great attention, Emily and her cousin fell 


118 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


behind the rest of their party. They had not yet 
been alone one minute since the return of the former 

from W , and now Isabel determined to make 

the most of it, by asking some questions about Har- 
vey. 

“Did Mr. Everett tell you that we were en- 
gaged ? ” she inquired, in a low tone. 

“No, he said nothing about it,” was the quick an- 
swer. “ He never talks of such subjects to me, and 
I had rather you wouldn’t.” 

“ You think you are too young, I suppose, returned 
the other, with a peculiar smile. “Well, you 
may as well know it, though for various reasons we 
wish to have it kept a secret at present. I thought 
at first that he meant to marry you ; but he said the 
idea had never entered his mind : you were far to 
tame to suit his fancy.” 

Emily stood peifectly still. “ Isabel,” she said, in 
a calm, earnest tone, “ I do not think that Harvey 
ever said that, or anything about me connected with 
that subject. He loves me like a sister, and would 
not speak so slightingly of me to a stranger. I came 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


119 


home from church with you because I wanted to talk 
on a very different subject ; but I will not go on un- 
til you have promised not to say another word about 
Harvey, or about any of your beaux, as you call 
them.” 

“Well, don’t turn so red, Emily. I have said 
nothing to make you angry. Come along ; I prom- 
ise.” 

“ You are going away to-morrow ; and I don’t 

know when we shall see each other again,” the young 
/ 

girl rejoined. “ We are own cousins, and ought to 
love each other, and try to do each other good. I 
have prayed a great deal for J^ou, Isabel. . Oh, how 
I wish we could be true sisters ; I mean sisters in 
loving Christ.” 

“ Why, Em ! to hear you talk one would think I 
was a hundred years old, instead of sixteen. I mean 
to become good before I die. I promised mother I 
would.” 

“ Oh, tell me about Aunt Caroline ! ” 

Isabel paused a moment, and seemed quite softened 
by the recollection. “ From what she used to tell 


120 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


me,” she went on, “ I think at my age she was as 
near like me as two peas. She met my father at a 
ball, to which she went without the knowledge of her 
parents. He was dressed in his uniform, and looked 
splendidly, I have often heard her say. The mo- 
ment she saw -him she loved him, and was deter- 
mined to be his wife. He too was delighted with her, 
and visited her at her father’s house, and wished to 
marry her. But her parents flatly refused their con- 
sent, which of course made my mother more deter- 
mined than ever to become Mrs. Sandoval. 

“ She worried them at last into a reluctant consent, 
threatening if they refused to run away or put an 
end to her life ; but before they had been in Cuba 
one year, she was so unhappy she incessantly begged 
her husband to return to the States. You know, I 
suppose, that I had two little brothers. My father 
was a very passionate man, and punished little Paul- 
ino so severely for some trifling offence, that he was 
taken with brain fever and soon after died. Little 
Andrew grieved so much for his poor brother that 
he never afterward was well. Father used to pun- 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


121 


ish the servants too, but mother always interposed 
when she -could. Directly after father’s death I was 
sent to school where I spent as much money as I 
pleased, and always managed to have my own way ; 
but at last mother sent for me to go home. I don’t 
like to think of that time and I never told any one 
about it before. She looked very sick, and of course 
I disliked sitting by her bed, and hearing her talk 
about dying. She said she had always meant to 
prepare some time to meet God ; but now she could 
only complain that her lot had been a hard one, and 
mourn that she had left a good home and broken her 
mother’s heart. 

“ She told me not to go on as she had, for now it 
was too late for her to repent. 

‘‘ I offered to send Juba for a priest, — there were 
no clergymen near us, — but she only cried and shook 
her head. At last she made me hunt up a Bible her 
mother had given her when she left home, and read 
in it a little ; but when I found it only made her 
more gloomy, I took it away and burnt it. She was 
bad enough before.” 


122 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


O, Isabel ! how very wicked that was ! ” 

“ Don’t you say a word about that,” retorted the 
other, angrily. “ I’m sure I don’t see why I’m tell- 
ing you at all. I did it for the best ; but I was sorry 
afterward, for mother mourned and mourned so for 
her lost book, I had to sell one of my bracelets and 
get her another. So you see I had the worst of it 
after all. 

“ She only lived two days after that. I promised 
her the day she died that I would come to the 
States, and become good, and all that. Of course I 
mean to before I die ? ” 

“Was Aunt Caroline* happy at last?” 

“ Why, what do you mean ? Nobody can be 
happy when they are dying.” 

“ Oh, yes indeed ! Christians always are. They 
know they are going to be with Jesus, and to be 
happy forever, and he sustains them in all their 
dying agonies.” 

“ Well, mother wasn’t happy. She did not want 
to die, though she had often said before she was tired 
of living. She kept screaming through the whole 


FORGIVING INJURY. 


123 


night, ‘ I can’t die yet.’ * I’m not prepared.’ It was 
a long time before I could get her cries and groans 
out of my mind.” 

Emily wiped away her tears, longing to improve 
her cousin’s subdued state and urge her to profit by 
her mother’s warning, and prepare for death while 
still in the vigor of health ; but before she could com- 
mand her voice, Isabel burst into a loud laugh. 

“ Why, Em ! ” she exclaimed, “ are you crying ? 
Well, I wont talk anymore on such gloomy subjects, 
I can’t imagine how I happened to tell you that.” 

“ If you were prepared for death, dear cousin, it 
would not make you gloomy. Oh, do believe me, 
Isabel ! you would be so much happier, if you would 
only love the dear Saviour, who has done so much 
for you. Will you not try to love him ? ” 

What a capital preacher you would make, Em,” 
was the only reply, as they slowly entered the house. 


CHAPTER X. 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 

It was not until after Isabel’s departure that Em- 
ily told her mother the reason which justified her in 
her own mind for suddenly leaving W . 

Mrs. Seaver was shocked at this new instance of 
want of principle in her niece. She was deeply 
grieved, too, that Harvey should for an instant give 
credit to such a story, or that believing it he should 
foolishly repeat it to her. She showed her daughter 
that she fully sympathized with her in this shock to 
her delicacy, but comforted her with the suggestion 
that her cousin was unlike himself during the whole 
vacation ; that on his return to sober thought he would 
do her all the justice she desired. 

Emily then repeated, with many blushes, the 

124 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


125 


remark Isabel had imputed to Harvey, that she was 
too tame a character for his choice. “ But not for a 
moment did I believe it,” she added. “ I think such 
language is as foreign to him as the other is to my 
own taste.” 

“ No, my daughter,” responded the lady warmly. 
‘‘We will do him the justice to believe he did not say 
it ; and now let us drop this subject forever.” 

“ I will try to, mother,” was the faltering reply ; 
“but I am glad Harvey will be away for a long time. 
I am quite ashamed to look him in the face.” 

“Try to get rid of such a feeling, my dear, as 
•fast as you can. You have done nothing to cause it. 
Occupy your mind with more elevated thoughts. 
Perform your duties cheerfully, and you will soon 
recover your spirits.” 

Mrs. Everett was greatly delighted at the return 
of her favorite, as well as at the departure of Isabel. 
Having learned through her niece the mistake of 
which her son had been guilty, she tried to make 
amends for it by increased kindness to her young 
friend. She was surprised sometimes to see how 


126 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


earnestly Emily regarded her, glancing up from her 
knitting to find those large eyes earnestly bent upon 
her face, little imagining how often the young girl 
recalled in her presence the sentence, “ My mother, 
Emily, would never hear a word against you.” 

If Mrs. Everett had not heard this story from her 
niece, she would have wondered at the grave, thought- 
ful demeanor of the young girl. Now she thought 
it, quite natural that the exhibition of such traits as 
the child had seen in Isabel, especially her shock 
regarding Harvey, should cause her to feel that she 
could no longer laugh and be merry with the thought- 
lessness of former years. She thought and hoped, 
however, that this unnatural seriousness or reserve 
would soon wear away. And this was true in part. 
As weeks flew by, there were times when her laugh 
was as gay and her actions as childish as ever. She 
was now immersed in her studies and music. When 
out of school she had her favorite walks with her 
mother or Fred, and a flying visit to the cottage, to 
occupy her attention. 

Harvey wrote every week to his mother, and 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


127 


always sent some message to Emily. Once or twice 
he enclosed a few lines to her, but they occasioned 
her so much embarrassment, often causing a long and 
apparently painful reverie, that Mrs. Everett took 
occasion to add the following postcript to her own 
letter : 

“ You express your wonder that in my journal I 
do not say more about my pet as you call her. In- 
deed, there is little to tell that would interest you. 
Emily is very like what she was before her cousin 
came, except when some allusion to Isabel, or the 
mention of your name, recalls with fresh vividness 
the events which occurred at that time. Then she 
suddenly grows sad, and often sits apparently living 
over those scenes, her color coming and going in her 
cheeks, and her eyes often filling with tears. For- 
merly, when I received a letter from you she would 
run gleefully in to hear the contents, dancing and 
clapping her hands with delight at any message to 
herself. Now she looks earnestly at me, never ask- 
ing for news of you, and seeming to shrink from the 
sound of your name. I gave her the note you 


128 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


enclosed in mine, and was surprised to see with what 
reluctance she received it. She read it thoughtfully, 
as if it were a severe reproof (I don’t know a word 
it contained), and then, after folding it carefully, 
approached my chair, in that timid way she has when 
she wants to ask a favor. 

“ Aunt Mary,” she began, “ if you please, will you 
ask your son not to write me again. I don’t think I 
quite like it.” ‘ 

“ I laughed, as I asked, ‘ And why is he not to 
write you now, when he has done so all his life ? ’ 

“ She became very much confused, but said pres- 
ently, ‘ he will know why it is not best,’ and then, as 
I looked keenly in her face, ‘ Harvey doesn’t think 
of me as he used to before — before Isabel came.’ 

“ I hope time will cure her sensitiveness on this 
subject ; but the heart of a pure young girl is a deli- 
cate machine, and will not bear to be roughly handled. 
When it is, it often requires years to recover the 
injury.” 

About this time Mrs. Everett exchanged her car- 
riage horse for a smaller animal, which was well 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


129 


fitted for the back. She proposed that Emily, who 
was growing rapidly, should take lessons of a thor- 
ough equestrian, who was teaching several young 
ladies in the village. 

Mrs. Seaver gladly consented, and took pleasure 
in fitting her daughter with a handsome riding-dress 
and cap. 

It would be difficult to tell who was more delighted, 
Emily or Fred. With a boy’s genuine love of a 
horse, he had already learned to ride and groom Cae- 
sar, and now soon formed acquaintance with Fanny, 
the new animal. He was proud to display his 
knowledge to his sister, explaining to her with much 
pomposity the proper method of holding the reins 
and of using the martingale. 

“ No wonder I improve,” she answered, with a 
merry laugh, with so many and such accomplished 
teachers.” 

Harvey, from a child, had been fond of riding, and 
often promised Emily he would teach her when she 
was old enough. Mrs. Seaver wondered whether 

her daughter ever thought of him, as she trotted 

9 


130 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


briskly out of the yard to meet her companions at 
the school. If she did, she never mentioned his 
name. 

One day Emily was at the cottage with her books, 
busily engaged in studying her lesson, when Fred 
came bounding into the room, calling out, at the top 
of his voice, “ Em — I say, Emily! father’s got a let- 
ter from Harvey, and he wants us all, you and I too, 
to go on to his commencement. He says he’s got a 
tip-top part to speak, and he wants us all to hear it.” 

Emily laughed aloud. The idea of her cousin 
souding his own praises, seemed so very absurd it 
reminded her of Isabel, who wrote after a fortnight 
at Mrs. Summers that she was the most popular 
young lady in the school. 

“ I think you are extemporizing,” said Mrs. Ever- 
ett, with a smile. “ Harvey would scarcely write 
that.” 

“ I don’t know what extemporizing is,” exclaimed • 
the lively boy ; “ but I’m sure he wants us to go, 
and that he’s got a tip-top part, I can’t remember 
the name of it, but father will tell you ; and oh ! I 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


131 


forgot Aunt Mary ! there’s a note in it for you, too ; 
so I suppose father will be along presently.” 

“ Well, well,” remarked the gentleman, at > this 
moment entering. “Harvey’s appointment is to a 
philosophical oration. Here is an invitation for us, 
my daughter, to go and hear him.” 

Mrs. Everett glanced at Emily, who took the note, 
her cheeks suffused with roses. Formerly she would 
enthusiastically have expressed her joy at his success, 
and her pleasure at the prospect of attending com- 
mencement ; now she read the note, smiling to be 
sure, but without one word of remark. Fred, who 
was looking over her shoulder, asked eagerly, “We 
shall go, shan’t we, father ? I never saw a college 
in my life.” 

“ Probably, my son. I am very glad for Harvey,” 
he added, turning to Mrs. Everett, who was reading 
her own note. 

“ Yes, he has done well. I knew of the appoint- 
ment some weeks since. He seems very anxious we 
should all be there.” 


132 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ Mrs. Seaver seems inclined to accept the invita- 
tion. What do you say, Emily ? ” 

“ I think it would be very pleasant to be at a 
commencement, and hear all the different parts ; but 
I can’t tell, father, whether I should like to go to this 
one, until I have thought about it more.” 

“ He looked surprised. “Why ! ” he exclaimed, “ I 
thought you of all the party would be most pleased.” 

“I’ll bet my new kite,” cried Fred, “you and 
Harvey had a quarrel the morning you left for 

W . I saw you when you came up the walk, 

and you looked real angry — just as Isabel used to 
look when her bills came in.” 

“ Fred,” said his father, “ how many times I have 
told you it was not proper to bet.” 

“We might aU go in my carriage,” remarked Mrs. 
Everett, returning to the original subject. 

“ Yes, and take W in our way. It would be 

a pleasant trip ; but there will be time to make ar- 
rangements. It is now the thirteenth of the month ; 
and commencement is not till the twenty-fifth.” 

After he left, Emily returned to her books ; but 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


133 


her aunt noticed that her eyes remained for a long 
time fixed on one page. She was evidently decid- 
ing whether it was best for her to go. The old lady 
thought it proper to assist her. 

“ Harvey’s plan coincides well with mine,” she 
remarked, smiling. ‘‘ I promised him I would attend 
his commencement, provided I could make suitable 
arrangements. We shall have to remain at the 
hotel two nights; and as I do not like to be alone in 
a public house, I intended to invite you to accom- 
pany me.” 

The young girl sprang up, and hid her face on her 
aunt’s shoulder. This was a way she had from a 
child when she did not wish the lady’s searching eyes 
to read her thoughts. “There are a great many 
reasons why I should like to go, she said softly, and 
only one why I should not. Harvey is very kind to 
mention me, and — ” 

“ I think, my dear,” said ' the lady kindly, “ it is 
quite time you returned to your old frankness. You 
used to tell me every feeling of your heart.” 

To her surprise Emily burst into tears. “ I should 


134 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


like to tell you all about it ; but I’m afraid you’d 
call me foolish.” 

Mrs. Everett drew a cricket to her feet, quite in 
the old way, and, patting the child’s head affection- 
ately, said, “We’re all apt to be foolish sometimes.” 

“ Mother told me,” Emily went on, “ that you 
knew all about that dreadful story Isabel told Har- 
vey. I can’t help thinking every niglit when I go to 
bed that if he loved me like a sister, as he always 
said he did, he might have known I would never re- 
ceive attention from any gentleman, even when I 
was old enough, secretly I mean, without my parents 
approval of it — ” 

She stopped abruptly ; but the lady, tenderly pass- 
ing her hand over the bright hair said, “ And is that 
all, my dear child? Has that thought troubled you 
all summer ? ” 

Emily blushed deeply ; but soon went on, in a fal- 
tering voice. “ I never thought, until Isabel came, 
that sixteen is almost a young lady ; and perhaps he 
had seen something rude or forward in me that led 
him to believe such a story; and that is the only 


COLLEGE COMMENCEMENT. 


135 


reason why I should rather not go to hear his ora- 
tion.” 

“ And why you did not answer his letters, or wish 
him to write you, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, Aunt Mary.” 

“ Well, I’ll think of it till to-morrow. I am as 
careful of your delicacy, my dear, as you can be ; so 
if there is the least appearance of forwardness in 
your accepting his invitation, I shall advise you to 
decline.” 

“ Thank you ; I feel better already for having told 
you,” and she alfectionately kissed her aunt, and 
returned home. 

The next day it was decided that a note should be 
sent to the young orator accepting his invitation, and 
requesting him to engage rooms for them at the hotel. 

For the next week, Fred could talk of nothing 
else. He begged his father, who was a graduate of 
the same college, to relate in detail the order of ex- 
excises, being most interested in the duty of the 
marshals wlio, with their roll as a badge of office, 
wait upon the company to their seats. 


136 


ART AND artlessness. 


They were to start on Monday afternoon, the com- 
mencement being on Wednesday, and every arrange- 
ment was made to that effect. But, unfortunately, 
on Sabbath afternoon Emily had a fainting-fit, which 
lasted so long that the whole family became alarmed, 
and sent in great haste for a physician. 

He thought at first that it was a temporary sick- 
ness occasioned in part by indigestion ; but another 
attack in the evening was followed by such violent 
symptoms, that he pronounced it the commencement 
of a fever. 

Mrs. Seaver at once renounced the idea of leaving 
her daughter, and the whole plan was changed : Mrs. 
Everett and Mr. Seaver leaving Tuesday morning 
by the cars, it being his intention to return the next 
evening by the late train, leaving the lady to the 
care of her son. 

Poor Fred was almost inconsolable at his disap- 
pointment; and his sister, who overheard him lament- 
ing it, begged her mother to allow him to go. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE SEA-SHORE. 

It was near midnight when the anxious father 

reached P and started on foot from the station 

to his own house. Such had been his solicitude con- 
cerning the result of this sickness that he had been 
unable to distract his thoughts from her sick-room. 

With his night-key he cautiously entered the 
house, and was proceeding through the dimly-lighted 
hall, when he was started hy the sound of laughter. 

Throwing his coat upon a chair, he sprang up the 
stairs, and met the physician coming from his daugh- 
ter’s bed. 

“ How is she ? ” he cried, “ is she worse ? ” 

The doctor motioned him into a side room, and 

after carefully shutting the door said, “ It is worse 

137 


138 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


than useless to deceive you. Your daughter has the 
typhus fever. She is very sick, but still not beyond 
hope. You can go to her chamber, indeed your 
wife needs you to support her ; but Emily will not 
know you. She is delirious.” 

Mr. Seaver groaned, as again through the closed 
door came that strange, unearthly laugh. 

“ I have left directions,” rejoined the physician, 
‘‘ and shall be in again early in the morning.” 

The poor man, after exchanging his coat and boots 
for a dressing-gown and slippers, softly entered the 
the sick-room. His wife, looking pale and wan, put 
her finger to her lips, as she pointed to the bed. Em.- 
ily had fallen asleep. The nurse, a woman famous 
through the whole neighborhood for her skill, was 
moving carefully about the room making preparations 
for the hours still left of the night. 

Standing by the side of the bed, Mr. Seaver was 
shocked at the ravages disease had made in the short 
time since he left home. He gazed long at the pale, 
set mouth, at the sunken eyes and pinched features. 
He placed his fingers softly on the pulse, and abso- 


THE SEA-SHORE. 


189 


lately started at the quick, wiry motion. Falling on 
his knees, his whole heart went out to his heavenly 
Father in strong intercessory prayer for her recov- 
ery. He confessed that the dear one lying before 
him, was the beloved of his heart, that perhaps he 
had made her an idol ; but he implored God to for- 
give liim, for the sake of his crucified Saviour, and 
restore his child to his arms. 

Day and night succeeded each other in that sick- 
chamber without any apparent change in the poor 
sufferer. The doctor acknowledged she was no bet- 
ter, and the nurse declared she was no worse. 

Mrs. Seaver had twice been prevailed upon to 
leave her, to take that repose which nature so imper- 
iously demanded ; but each time she had first retired 
to her closet, and there, like Jacob, wrestled with the 
angel of the covenant for a blessing upon her child. 

Father, if it be thy will to cut short her days,” 
was the language of her heart, “ prepare her for the 
solemn exchange of worlds, and for a dwelling at 
thy right hand ; but, if consistant with thine infinite 
love and mercy, spare her to us yet a little longer.” 


140 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Mr. Seaver, too, often retired from the sight of her 
suffering to pray earnestly for her relief. 

One day, as he was bending over her pillow, he 
heard her whisper the words, “O, Father! ” He 
held his breath, thinking she was addressing him ; but 
she went on with this simple prayer : “ teach me to 
say thy will be done,” and then fell into her first 
refreshing slumber. 

This prayer was repeated many times in the 
course of the day and night, her earnest, touching 
petitions deeply affecting their hearts ; but the follow- 
ing morning the fever seemed to run higher, and the 
excitement and delirium returned. She now talked 
incessantly, sometimes about her lessons, again about 
her pony, imagining herself upon Fanny’s back, and 
then, in a confused manner, about her cousins Har- 
vey and Isabel. Once she called out in a loud, sharp 
tone, “ He never would have believed it of me, but 
for your influence over him,” and again later in the 
day, “ No, I’m sure he did not say that; he would 
never speak of his sister so lightly.” 

Fred, who spent most of his time at the door of 


THE SEA-SIIORE. 


141 


her chamber," which nothing could induce him to 
enter, ,ran quickly to the cottage to repeat this to 
Harvey. 

“ What does she mean ? ” quickly inquired the 
young man, turning to his mother. 

“ It means, my son, that she has been tortured by 
that wicked Spanish girl.” 

“ If I thought,” he exclaimed, in great excitement, 
“ that Isabel had dealt with her as she has with me, 
I would — ” 

“ It is too late to tell what you would do, Harvey,” 
she said, laying her hand on his arm. “ I fear the 
dear child is not to remain with us long.” 

“ Mother — is it, can it be so ? ” He glanced at 
her agitated countenance, saw her lip quiver with 
suppressed emotion, and, catching his hat from the 
rack, darted from the house. Visions of Emily as 
she was, bright, artless and confiding, before her 
cousin’s arrival from Cuba ; visions of her as he saw 
her last bending like a bruised reed before the storm, 
telling her heavenly Friend her trials, as the only 
relief to her unburdened heart ; and visions of her 


142 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


as she was now pallid and ghastly, approaching 
nearer and nearer to the grave, by turns filled his 
mind. Without this sweet child home would never 
seem like home. In that trying hour he acknowl- 
edged that Emily, by her artlessness and purity, had 
entwined herself about every fibre of his heart. 

When he returned home he found his mother had 
gone to the other house ; and learning from Abigail 
that she had had no further intelligence, hastened to 
follow her. 

An air of dreadful gloom pervaded the whole 
premises. As he passed the back door, the servants 
were moving noiselessly about their work, their faces 
bearing marks of their sympathy with the grief 
which threatened the family. In the front hall stood 
Fred, sobbing to himself. Hearing a low, confused 
sound, in the upper hail, he ventured to ascend. 
Here, the nurse, Mrs. Seaver, and Mrs. Everett 
stood together, the father being engaged in watching 
the poor sufferer. 

“ In all my experience, I never knew it fail,” the 


THE SEA SHORE. 


143 


nurse was saying, “ She’ll get well ; you’ll see it ; 
I feel it in my bones.” 

“ God grant it,” murmured Mrs. Everett, fer- 
vently. 

She glanced at her son, and then, after a whisper 
to the weeping mother, beckoned him to the bed- 
side. 

Oh, how changed was that once bright face ! Her 
eyes were closed and sunken, with dark lines under- 
neath them ; the hands, which lay outside the coun- 
terpane, were thin and wasted, her cheeks, which 
when last he saw them were blooming with the roses 
of health, were pallid and wan. Without one word 
he stood and gazed, then softly left the chamber. 

The predictions of the faithful nurse proved true. 
The next morning the patient opened her eyes, and 
the light of consciousness beamed from them. Fa- 
ther, mother, brother, and aunt approached the bed- 
side, were welcomed with a feeble smile, and then 
went by themselves to thank God for his infinite 
mercy. The convalescence was very gradual ; indeed 
weeks passed, and the patient sufferer seemed to re- 


144 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


cover no strength. The doctor began to look grave, 
and the parents anxious. At last Mrs. Everett 
proposed a visit to the sea-shore. 

Harvey, who was about entering a medical school, 
was sent off at once to engage rooms at a quiet 
boarding-house. The very idea of the ocean, with 
its refreshing breezes, seemed to exhilarate Emily’s 
weakened frame. The doctor complimented her on 
a slight tinge of color which, appeared in her cheeks. 
She even thought she relished her beef-tea, which 
before had been loathsome to her. 

The project was for Mrs. Seaver to accompany 

her daughter and Mrs. Everett to N , where, 

after seeing them comfortably arranged, she would 
return home, leaving the sick girl in the care of her 
aunt and the efficient Abigail ; Harvey, who was 
studying only a dozen miles from the shore, promis- 
ing to pass every Sabbath with them. 

In the excitement of first being carried from her 
chamber to the parlor, Emily scarcely noticed that 
it was her cousin who prepared the lounge for her 
reception, arranging the pillows carefully, that it was 


THE SEA-SHORE. 


145 


from his hand she took the weak brandy which the 
physician had ordered, and that he hovered near ready 
to anticipate every wish. It seemed so pleasant and 
natural to look around on the familiar faces, and to 
be ministered unto with such watchful affection, that 
in her weakness she felt disposed to receive every 
kindness as freely as it was offered. 

It was not for several days, only the evening 
before she started for the beach, that the young stu- 
dent found an opportunity to say to her wlmt he had 
long wished. Mrs. Seaver was in her chamber, 
packing Emily’s trunk, while his mother had just 
left the room to make some final arrangements for 
her protracted departure, and Fred was at the fur- 
ther end of the back parlor deeply absorbed in a 
book. 

Drawing nearer to her lounge, where she sat par- 
tially supported by cushions, he said, cheerfully, 
“ To-morrow at this time I hope you will be comfort- 
ably settled in your pleasant room in N .” 

“ Does it overlook the sea ? ” she inquired, eagerly. 

“ Oh yes ! I was determined to engage no room 
10 


146 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


where you could not witness the coming in and 
going out of the tide.” 

She gave a little scream of delight, in her old, 
childish way. 

Harvey smiled, but presently grew thoughtful again. 
“ Emily,” he asked, “ will you grant me one favor 
before you go ? ” 

She raised her eyes frankly to his, then answered, 
rather shyly, “ Certainly I will.” 

He bent his head nearer her pillow as he said, 
“ When you look out on those rolling billows, will 
you try to forgive one who is deeply pained by your 
reserve ; who, though he offended you, did it uninten- 
tionally ? ” 

She put her hand instantly in his. “ I will forgive 
you here, and now,” she answered, warmly, the 
blushes deepening in her cheeks. “ I am afraid I 
was very foolish in W .” 

“ I know I was,” he rejoined fervently ; “ but I 
have grown wiser now. Suffering is a severe but 
a faithful teacher.’ 

Her eyes met his inquiringly. 


THE SEA-SIIOE,E. 


14T 


“ When you were so sick,” he went on, “ I stood 
by the side of your bed. There was scarcely a hope 
that you would recover. I cannot, if I would, tell 
you what I felt as I thought I might be looking for 
the last time on those loved features, now so pallid 
and sunken ; but I went home and shut myself up 
in my chamber, and communed with my own heart 
and my God. I came out, after many hours of soli- 
tude, a wiser though a humbler man, with new pur- 
poses in life, with new motives to prepare for the 
end of life, and for the happiness promised the 
believer.” 

‘‘ Dear cousin,” was the low response, “ if you feel 
so, I am sure God will give you grace to do all his 
will. I too hope to live far more devoted to him 
than I have ever done before. As I lay on my pil- 
low, too ill to speak or to notice what was passing 
around me, I thought, with deep regret, that I had 
lived far too much to this world and for my own 
pleasure, and too little for Him who gave his life for 
me. I resolved, if God spared my life, to be different. 
I do want to do something for my Saviour before I 


148 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


die, something to show mj gratitude for all his love 
and forbearance toward me. I meant to try as soon 
as I could speak, but somehow it is not easy when it 
comes to the time. I hope God will give me strength 
to keep my resolutions.” 

“ Your faithfulness, Emily, has shamed me again 
and again. Abigail told me she never thought so much 
about living right before. She seemed greatly im- 
pressed with the remark you made to nurse the day 
she left ; that in order not to fear death one must 
live right ; that, after all, dying did not seem to you 
as solemn as living.” 

Dear nurse,” murmured Emily, “ after being so 
faithful to me, I hope she wont neglect her own soul. 
She promised me she’d read every night in the little 
Bible I gave her, if it was only one verse.” 

“ It will be so pleasant to me,” the young man 
added, after a pause, “ to pass a part of Saturday and 

the whole Sabbath with you in N . Before you 

leave we must contrive to explore the rocks and 
caverns which I am told abound in that vicinity. 
Then I must teach you to fish. I wonder,” he said. 


THE SEA-SHORE. 


149 


laughing, how Abigail will get oh without the 
world of care she takes upon herself at home.” 

“You forget,” she responded merrily, “that I am 
her special charge, and that the doctor has ordered 
salt water bathing every day. I think your mother 
and I shall contrive to keep her busy. I hope she 
wont object to picking up mosses and sea-shells. 
I want to make a pretty basket while I am there, 
and fill it with those beautiful ocean-flowers.” 

“ I am sure she will be glad to do anything for 
you,” he answered, earnestly. 

The next morning, at an early hour, the travelling 
party were on their way. It was a tedious ride to 
the sick girl, as her pale cheeks bore witness, though 
she tried to bear the fatigue as bravely as possible. 
When she reached the end of her journey, slie was 
so much exhausted that she made no objection when 
Harvey lifted her in his arms from the carriage and 
laid her on the bed in her own room. For that one 
night she was obliged to content herself without a 
glance at the foaming billows ; but, as she lay on her 
pillow, the monotonous roar of the waves, as they 


150 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


rolled in and broke over the beach, quieted her excited 
nerves, and finally lulled her into a refreshing slumber. 

Harvey left the next afternoon for the city, happy 
in the belief that the scenes she viewed with such 
enthusiastic delight would bring vigor to her weak- 
ened frame. 

At the expiration of a week Mrs. Seaver returned 
home, convinced that Mrs. Everett’s prescription of 
the sea air would prove a thorough cure to the in- 
valid. Fred shouted with mirth as she described 
Emily’s sharpened appetite, which not a double por- 
tion of the delicious fried fish and potatoes could 
allay. 

In company with his father he visited the beach 
before she left, and had the satisfaction of behold- 
ing with his own eyes the wonderful ocean of which 
he had heard so much. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 

Mrs. Summers was not prepared for so much 
beauty and style in her new scholar. Indeed, when 
she heard that a fashionable lady waited in the 
parlor to see her, she supposed it was the friend of 
one of her pupils. She had formed an idea of Isabel : 
short, chubby, and wholly uninformed in manner, as 
well as in morals. From Mr. Seaver’s letters, also, 
she inferred that Miss Sandoval was poor. Imagine 
then her surprise and embarrassment when, on enter- 
ing the large apartment devoted to visitors, a tall, 
polished lady rose with the ease of a woman of the 
world, and advanced to meet her. 

“Mrs. Summers, I presume,” was the smiling 


remark. 


151 


152 


ART AND ARTLESSN^:SS. 


The lady bowed, and motioned the stranger to a 
richly cushioned lounge. 

“ I suppose my guardian, Mr. Seaver, informed 
you I should arrive to-day.” 

“ Your guardian — Mr. Seaver,” repeated the pre- 
ceptress, trying to remember where she had heard 
the name. Then with a start and a searching glance, 
“ Surely you are not Miss Sandoval.” 

“ That is my name,” was the laughing reply. 
“ Your school, Mrs. Summers, I am informed, has a 
high reputation. I am determined my being here 
shall not make it less popular.” 

The lady murmured her thanks, trying to recall 
her scattered senses. She had prepared a pretty 
little lecture to be delivered to the new and' restive 
pupil, but the idea of finding fault with this polished 
miss was really out of the question. 

“ If you have no objection, I should like to ex- 
change my travelling dress for something more 
suitable to the day,” Isabel ventured to add. “ The 
afternoon is very warm.” 

“Certainly — certainly; that is if you will have 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 


153 


the goodness to wait one moment, I will have your 
room ready. Mr. Seaver informed me that you 
would not object to a room-mate.” 

“ Oh no ! ” said the young lady, showing all her 
white teeth, “ that is, if she is lively and agreeable.” 

Mrs. Summers hastened up stairs to make a sud- 
den change in the disposition of her pupils. Ella 
Loring, a miss from the city, was quickly trans- 
ferred to the large attic reserved for Miss Sandoval, 
while the baggage of the latter was removed to the 
pleasant room over the parlor, where she was 
speedily introduced to Miss Harriet Snow her room- 
mate. 

“We dined some time since,” remarked the pre- 
ceptress. “ Shall I send a luncheon to your room ? ” 

“ Oh no ! I dined at S ,” smilingly answered 

Isabel. “ I always take excellent care of myself in 
that respect.” 

The lady walked slowly down to her private par- 
lor, with the conclusion that Mr. Seaver’s ideas of 
economy and her own were widely different. 

She was scarcely seated in her chair before the 


154 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


new scholar burst into a hearty laugh, greatly to the 
surprise of the staid young miss seated opposite her. 
She had perceived at a glance the impression she 
made, knew without being told that summary changes 
had taken place after her arrival, learned through 
them the weakness of her instructress, and deter- 
mined to take the greatest possible advantage of it. 

Before she had been at the school three days. Miss 
Sandoval was just what she intended to be, a privi- 
leged pupil. Possessed of a good memory, she only 
needed to read over her lessons in order to present a 
most favorable example to her class. She had time 
for the cultivation of her voice, which was really fine, 
and for the execution of any favorite schemes there 
might 'be on hand. 

At the distance of only seven miles from Mrs. 
Summers’ seminary, was a medical college. Some 
of the misses had brothers or acquaintance there, so 
that it was natural the levees, advertised for every 
Friday evening, should be fully attended. 

Belonging to the seminary were several saddle 
horses, for the benefit of those who could ride. 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 


155 


Isabel was not slow to avail herself of these advan- 
tages, both of the medical school and the horses. 
She regretted that she had not kept Mrs. Everett’s 
skirt, which was of the finest broadcloth, but was 
obliged to be contented with the offer of an inferior 
one from a young, lady who had not courage for the 
exercise. This, worn over her exquisitely fitting 
travelling-dress, with a jaunty cap she had made at 

P , formed an outfit most of the girls envied. 

She resolved to do good execution with them. Mrs. 
Summers, without the least intention of doing so, 
favored her plans. In fact she was proud of her 
new scholar, and on every occasion when there were 
callers, managed that Isabel should be seen. Some- 
times it was, “ Would Miss Sandoval have the 
goodness to play that new opera to a lady in the 
parlor ? ” or the servant would come with a message, 
“ A gentleman has called to inquire about the school. 
Mrs. Summers would be greatly obliged if you would 
see him, as she is engaged for a few moments.” , 

To the latter class Isabel, who, as we have seen, 
had no scruples of conscience, represented the sem- 


156 


AI^ AND ARTL^JSSNESS. 


inary as embracing every advantage that a fond 
parent could desire, and the preceptress as a martyr 
to the best interests of her pupils, whether of a lite- 
rary or a religious nature. 

This was of course repeated to Mrs. Summers by 
the visitors, and was alternately the occasion of en- 
larging the school, and of laying the teacher under 
a lasting obligation to her devoted scholar. 

As a natural consequence. Miss Sandoval must be 
accommodated with a horse whenever she wished to 
ride ; the excuse being made to the young ladies that 
she had always been accustomed to the exercise, and 
her health would suffer if deprived of it. 

She was allowed also to receive visitors occa- 
sionally, aside from the regular times, and soon took 
the liberty to receive them at any time she pleased ; 
the servants, to whom she was exceedingly affable, 
being quite as ready to obey her orders and summon 
her without permission, as to fulfil the commands of 
their more exacting mistress. 

Sometimes Isabel descended from the pedestal 
upon which with consummate art she had placed 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 


157 


herself, and descended to low games and jokes with 
her schoolmates. 

On one occasion she took advantage of the illness 
of a young miss, who in consequence of a severe 
fever, had been obliged to have her head shaved. 
Her abundant tresses, which were of a flaxen hue, 
were made into numerous braids and cords, to be 
worn while her hair was still short. 

Entering the room where the sick girl lay upon 
her bed, Isabel carried away with her the box con- 
taining these, which she ingeniously braided with 
her own raven locks, according to a fashion-plate of 
olden time, and then, as if unconscious of anything 
unusual in her appearance, walked into the recita- 
tion-room and took her seat. 

It was a class in philosophy, taught three times a 
week by Professor Simonds of the adjoining town ; 
and the gentleman did not notice her appearance 
until many of the scholars began to titter. He 
himself could not help smiling at the unique head- 
dress ; Isabel, with her eyes fastened on her book 
being the only composed person in the room. 


158 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ Miss Sandoval,” he said at length, finding it 
impossible to proceed, “ your hair — does it not need 
a little attention ? ” 

‘‘ Excuse me,” she said, rising with perfect self- 
possession. “ I will adjust it at the mirror.” 

She went out, but almost instantly returned, having 
only rendered the contrast somewhat more prominent. 

Professor Simmonds bit his lip as she returned 
gracefully to her seat ; then, in a more authoritative 
tone than they had ever heard him use, he said, 
“ Young ladies, I must have your attention,” when 
the lesson proceeded with spirit, Isabel as usual con- 
triving by adroit questions to give her teacher the 
idea she was intensely interested in the subject. 

At another time, on one of the warmest days in 
July, she happened to be passing a room on the story 
above her own, when she saw lying on the bed a 
long red flannel gown, such as she had seen worn by 
the aged negroes in Cuba. Without a moment’s 
thought she caught it up and carried it to her own 
room. There arraying herself in it, and buttoning 
it closely in the neck, she put on her best hat, an ex- 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 


159 


quisite little affair she had brought from the Islands, 
and directing the servant, who was almost convulsed 
with laughter, to say that she had gone out for a 
walk, hastened from the house. She had proceeded 
but a short distance before she was surrounded by 
the younger pupils, who could not find words to ex- 
press their astonishment at her appearance. They 
begged to be allowed to accompany her on her excur- 
sion ; but, with the air of a princess, she waved them 
aside, seeing just in front of her a gentleman of her 
acquaintance. 

At the tea-table she still retained the singular 
dress, much to the discomfiture of the preceptress. 

“ I thought the servants must have stolen it,” cried 
the young miss from whose room it was taken. “ 1 
made it for a poor dropsical woman in the village, 
and'was to have carried it to her this afternoon.” 

There were other jokes, too, not so innocent in 
their character ; but still, nothing that Mrs. Summers 
thought it politic to notice. The young West Indian 
was a useful friend, and might be quite a dangerous 
enemy. 


160 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


In common with the other pupils Isabel received 
many lectures on propriety, refinement, etc., and cer- 
tainly, as far as the preceptress herself was concerned, 
no one profited more by them. 

To her instructors, both male and female. Miss 
Sandoval invariably conducted herself with polite- 
ness, while her natural good humor made her a 
favorite with the whole establishment. She did not 
fail to take advantage of this popularity to accomplish 
her own purposes. 

To her room-mate Miss Snow, who was child of 
a wealthy gentleman in New York, she represented 
herself as a rich heiress, but with a stern guardian 
who restricted her to a niggardly allowance. When- 
ever the young lady had a remittance from home, 
Isabel was sure to need some article of clothing, 
which would bring from the other a proffer of part 
of her funds. 

So it was with the others ; every one of them was 
made useful in some way, and most of them were 
proud of being so 


THE PRIVILEGED PUPIL. 


161 


At the distance of half a mile from the seminary 
there was a large store containing most of the variety 
necessary in a country village. This was a favorite 
resort of Isabel, who, sometimes accompanied by the 
young ladies, but oftener on horseback and alone, 
went to see either the handsome owner of the estab- 
lishment, or the nice silks on'his counter. Mr. Ewell 
having ascertained to his satisfaction that the dash- 
ing beauty was rich as well as fascinating, did not 
hesitate to sell her anything she desired. 

Toward the close of the term her intimacy with 
this gentleman increased. He was punctual in his 
attendance at the Friday levees, and indeed called 
upon Miss Sandoval openly at the seminary. His 
attentions to her pupil at last became so marked that 
Mrs. Summers suggested writing to her guardian. 

Isabel opened wide her eyes, inquired whether the 
lady was not aware that Mr. Seaver with his family 
was making a tour of the States, and on that account 
had written to her that it would be best to remain at 
the seminary during the vacation. 

But,” rejoined the lady, “ a letter might certainly 
11 


162 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


reach him somewhere ; at any rate I should be glad 
to relieve myself of the responsibility.” 

. “ I do not think there is the least occasion at pres- 
ent,” said the young girl, laughing ; “ but if you will 
write a note to my guardian, I will enclose it in one 
I intend to send to a friend to be forwarded to his 
last address.” 

Mrs. Summers gladly availed herself of the oppor- 
tunity, but the letter never went. Isabel read it in 
her own room, and tore it into shreds. 


' CHAPTER XIIL 


THE DECEPTION. 

It was the custom of the preceptress to take a 
short journey during the vacation, leaving any of the 
young ladies who, from the distance to their own 
home, or any other reason, chose to remain at the* 
seminary under the care of the matron. This per- 
son, whose name was Johnstone, kept her position 
in Mrs. Summers’ school by pandering to the weak- 
nesses of the pupils. To one who made an idol of 
her stomach she conveyed little dainties to tempt her 
appetite. For another, who of all things in the 
world disliked mending, she secretly contrived to 
relieve her of the responsibility before the dreaded 
Wednesday afternoon. One young miss she praised 
for her beauty, another for her diligence, and another 
still for the richness of her dress. 


163 


164 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Wlien Miss Sandoval, after a short residence at 
the seminary, made up for Mrs. Johnstone a tasteful 
head-dress out of some cast-off finery of her -own, 
she laid the matron under an everlasting obligation ; 
there was nothing too good for Miss Sandoval, who, 
it was easy to see, had been accustomed to a luxuri- 
ous style of living ; there was no sacrifice too great, 
if she could do anything for the comfort of so charm- 
ing a miss. 

Now Isabel, as we have seen, was of that character 
that would never hesitate a moment to sacrifice the 
comfort or character of a friend to her own interests ; 
and yet she preferred living on good terms with every 
one. So far she had succeeded admirably in the 
seminary, and when at the close of the term she 
received rather a liberal allowance from her guar- 
dian, she felt that, for once, circumstances were in her 
favor. 

Perhaps the reader may be interested to read a 

short epistle which reached P just when Emily 

was beginning to be convalescent : 


THE DECEPTION. 


165 


“ My Dear Guardian : — Enclosed I send you 
my report for the term, and also Mrs. Summers’ bill 
for board and tuition. You will see that according to 
your wishes I have squared my expenses to my in- 
come. I have been consulting my teacher in regard 
to the vacation. I told her frankly that I wished to 
economize in 'every possible way. She advises me to 
remain quietly at the seminary through the vacation, 
taking the opportunity to practice music, which my 
close attention to more important branches has pre- 
vented me from doing as much as I ought through 
the term. 

I have concluded to remain, therefore, though I 
anticipate rather a gloomy time after all the young 
ladies have left, the matron being a quiet, orderly 
person with few charms either of person or manners. 

With many thanks for your constant kindness to 
your unworthy niece. 

Isabel Sandoval.” 

Though he had been deceived so often, Mr. Seaver 
I-ead this letter with great interest, and told his wife 
he really believed his niece had seen the error of her 


166 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


ways, and was trying to amend. He commended 
her highly in his reply, sent her an additional ten- 
dollar bill as a present from himself, and told her he 
hoped everything from her residence with Mrs. 
Summers. 

Isabel shouted with mirth when she perused the 
epistle. “ There,” said she to herself, “ who shall 
say there is any harm in a little deception. By a 
few white lies I have made my guardian very happy 
and have gained this ten-dollar bill. To* be sure it 
is not a fifth of what I owe Mr. Ewell, to say noth- 
ing of my debts to the girls ; but as a presenfit is 
very acceptable, nevertheless. 

Indulgent, however, as Mrs. Johnstone was inclined 
to be, she was amazed at the liberties taken by Miss 
Sandoval the moment Mrs. Summers had left the 
house. Insisting that the lady had made her prom- 
ise to have everything for her own comfort, she 
ordered the servants to prepare a nice supper, as 
she wished to invite a friend to partake with her. 
From this time one visit from Mr. Ewell was fol- 
lowed rapidly by another, interspersed with rides 


THE DECEPTION. 


167 


and walks, by day light and by moon light ; at each 
succeeding interview the lover being more charmed 
with his lady fair. 

To this gentleman she represented herself, as she 
had done to Harvey, as under the guardianship of a 
stern mentor, who kept her estates locked up until 
she attained the age of eighteen, at which time, 
according to her . mother’s will, she was free to dis- 
pose of herself and. her property as she saw fit. 
To him, also, as to all the young ladies, she called 
herself seventeen instead of sixteen, and therefore 
within a year of being her own mistress. 

Isabel often asked herself, “ Do I love Mr. 
Ewell ? ” When she thought of Harvey, who was 
so much his superior both in talent and real worth, 
she sighed as she answered, “ No, I do not love him ; 
but I intend to marry him because he has the means 
to gratify my ambition. He has already promised 
to give up his store here, and live in a handsome 
house in New York.” She laughed almost bitterly, 
as she added, “ He says I shall have my mother’s 
jewels reset, little imagining they consist of the plain 


168 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


brooch and bracelet he has so often seen me wear, and 
that the rich ear-rings and pin he calls mine, in 
reality belong to Harriet Snow. He must not know 
this until we are married ; and, in order that he shall 
not, we will be married — when ? ” 

It was nearly the close of the second term, almost 
six months after Isabel left P , that her guar- 

dian received a brief note from Mrs. Summers in- 
forming him that a merchant by the name of Ewell 
had for some time been marked in his attentions to 
Miss Sandoval, that she had made careful inquires 
concerning his character, and had learned nothing 
which was not to his credit. She desired, however, 
that Mr. Seaver should see the gentleman before 
anything like an engagement was entered into, that 
by his own observation he might form a judgment 
of the suitableness of the match. 

The gentleman wrote at once to Isabel, desiring 
her to invite Mr. Ewell to call upon her during her 
vacation, and then added, “You are young, dear 
niece ; too young, I fear, to be able to judge what will 
best serve your own happiness ; but if your friend 


THE DECEPTION. 


169 


is what Mrs. Summers describes, I shall not refuse 
my consent to an early engagement, though I hope 
you will remember that your education is far from 
completed. I trust you have dealt frankly with the 
gentleman in regard to your property, as I shall cer- 
tainly be obliged to do when I resign my trust. I 
am pleased to be able to add that I recently received 
a letter from your agent, who tells me that there is 
a chance of disposing of the estate to much better 
advantage than he had supposed possible. He will 
write again soon.** 

Isabel smiled bitterly when she had read this kind 
note. A crisis in her young life was approaching. 

She arrived at her uncle’s a few days before 
Christmas, Emily having been at home more than a 
month. In a few days Mr. Ewell followed. But 
unfortunately for the decision of his suit, Mr. Seaver 
had been summoned to a distant part of the State, 
on business which could not be delayed. The gen- 
tleman, therefore, nothing loath, established himself 

at the only hotel in P , spending most of his 

time at Mr. Seaver’s. 


170 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


His first appearance was rather prepossessing. 
He was tall, of a good figure, had small blue eyes, 
auburn hair, and an abundance of sandy whiskers, 
which were trimmed in the latest style. His hands 
were white and smooth, while on his little finger he 
wore an immense seal ring. His dress was of the 
finest broadcloth, and of a fashionable cut. Alto- 
gether he was quite presentable. Mrs. Seaver re- 
ceived him cordially, apologizing for her husband’s 
absence. Emily, for her cousin’s sake, was disposed 
to be kind ; but, after the second interview, could not 
help shrinking from him as a bad man. 

Perhaps Isabel’s jokes might have added to this 
feeling, for she was, or pretended to be, jealous of 
her lover’s admiration of the ‘baby-faced girl, as she 
in her thoughts designated her cousin, and repeated 
freely his complimentary remarks. 

Mr. Ewell did indeed pay marked attention to 
Emily, even to the extent of inviting her to ride in 
Isabel’s place, and offering her costly presents, both 
of which she decidedly declined. 

As week after week passed without bringing Mr. 


THE DECEPTIOI^. 


ITl 


Seaver, the lover who at first either rode or walked 
with Isabel every day, and sometimes twice a day, 
began to grow remiss -in his attentions. He would 
sit .twirling his hat, or with a book in his hand, which 
he continually opened and shut, his eyes being fast- 
ened on Emily’s blushing face, while Isabel sat 
haughtily by, her black orbs flashing, and her cheek 
flushing with anger at the too evident neglect. 

At last this change in his affections became so 
marked that the modest girl could endure it no 
longer. She spent much of her time when out of 
school at the cottage or in her own chamber. 

Mrs. Seaver wrote continually urging her hus- 
band’s return. She too had become very distrustful 
of a man whose affections had proved so fickle ; and, 
besides, there was much in his treatment of Isabel, 
indeed in their treatment of each other, 'which puz- 
zeled her extremely. At times the haughty girl 
assumed an air "almost of defiance, which however 
had no effect on him except to produce a scornful 
smile, or a retort as insulting as it was unusual 
under the circumstances. 


172 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


One morning Harvey, who was still at the medical 
college, arrived unexpectedly for a short visit. Hav- 
ing paid his respects to his mother, and learned from 
her the state of Isabel’s affairs, he proceeded to Mr. 
Seaver’s, feeling no little curiosity to see the man 
who was willing to risk his happiness in the hands 
of so unprincipled a girl. It so happened that on 
the preceding evening Miss Sandoval and her lover 
had a more serious dispute than any which had pre- 
ceded it, and wholly disregarding the presence of 
Mrs. Seaver and Fred, had both of them uttered 
some phrases which she could only understand by 
supposing the artful girl had already given him a 
claim upon her obedience. They had parted in an- 
ger, but in the morning IMr. Ewell had seemed to 
think better of it, and had come early with a car- 
riage to take her to ride. Harvey came up just as he 
was inviting Emily to accompany them, and was 
surprised to hear how decidedly she refused. 

Isabel started wdien she saw him, suddenly ex- 
changing the heavy frown which the invitation of 


THE DECEPTION. 


173 


her lover to her cousin had occasioned, for a beaming 
smile of welcome. 

Mr. Ewell turned from his horses, to see who was 
so warmly received, when Isabel introduced him to 
her old friend. There was a momentary pause, as 
they waited for the party to drive off ; but with this 
new arrival in view, Isabel was in no haste to be 
gone. She immediately commenced a lively con- 
versation with the stranger concerning his gradua- 
tion and his studies ; told him, with a laugh, she had 
added several of the medical faculty to her list of 
acquaintances; and finally proposed that he should 
join them in their excursion ; “ or, what is still bet- 
ter,” she said, ‘Met us exchange the carriage for 
saddle-horses and have a ride by the river, in mem- 
ory of olden times.” 

Harvey politely excused himself from either, as 

his time in P was necessarily very short, and 

turned rather abruptly into the house after Emily, 
wondering not a little at the thoughtless girl wlio, in 
this reckless way, was playing with her own happi- 


ness. 


174 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ Come, Isabel,” said Mr. Ewell, in an authoritive 
voice ; “ if we are going at all, we had better be off.” 

Without a word she ascended the steps to the 
carriage. 

Half an hour later, Mrs. Seaver received the wel- 
come intelligence that her husband was to return 
the next day. From hints thrown out by Mr. Ewell, 
she had come to the conclusion that her niece had 
involved herself in debt to him ; and that it was the 
knowledge of this which rendered her at times so 
obedient, though restive under control. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 

In a few minutes Emily set off for school, when 
her cousin instantly begged leave to accompany her. 

Except by her blushes the young girl gave no con- 
sent, and he waited for none. Taking her satchel 
from her hand, as in the olden time, he walked 
quietly by her side until they were out in the open 
street. 

What a curious match that will be,” he said, at 
length. 

“ If it ever is a match,” she replied, smiling. 

And is there any doubt of that ? He seems to 
take it for granted that she is bound to him.” 

“ Oh, it is dreadful ! ” exclaimed the young girl, with 

a deep sigh. “ I don’t see how Isabel can love such 

175 


176 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


a man as lie is ; and loving him, how she can provoke 
him as she does.” 

I am sorry to see your new relative is not to 
prove a favorite with you.” 

She glanced a moment in his face, wondering 
whether he referred to Mr. Ewell’s too evident de- 
sire to win her favor. 

“ There is something about him,” she said frankly, 
“ which inspires distrust. I cannot avoid the impres- 
sion that he is a bad man ; but perhaps I judge him 
too harshly.” 

“It is rather an unfavorable time to judge of a 
man when his thoughts and affections are all devoted 
to one person.” 

“ But his are not, I am sure, though Isabel does 
not seem to love him, because she is jealous of him.” 

“ Ah, indeed 1 ” he said, concealing a smile ; “ what 
makes you think she does not love him ? 

“ IVhy, she never consults his feelings or wishes,” 
said Emily, speaking with great enthusiasm. “ And 
then she never seems to care whether he comes in 
the evening or not. I think it must be a very solemn 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


177 


thing to be about to marry, and have your husband’s 
happiness trusted to you. I fear Isabel does not 
think of that as she ought.” 

“ Or as you would, dear Emily,” Harvey opened 
his lips to say ; but he checked himself. He glanced 
at his companion, whose brilliant color proved her 
deep feeling on this subject, and said to himself. 

How could I ever prefer Isabel to this lovely 
child.” - 

They parted at the corner of the street leading to 
the academy : so Emily requested — Harvey only 
stopping to say, “ Mother tells me you have be- 
come an accomplished equestrian ; will you ride with 
me this evening ? ” 

“ Ask mother,” was her blushing reply. 

Toward night Mrs. Seaver became very anxious, 
as neither Isabel nor Mr. Ewell had returned. She 
blamed herself again and again for allowing so much 
intimacy ; but what could she do ? Her niece would 
walk and drive, without the least regard to her 
wishes. 

At last, just as the horses were brought round for 
12 


178 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Emily and her cousin, the carriage drove hastily to 
the door. 

Isabel’s face grew dark as Harvey rendered to the 
lovely girl the attentions that had once been her own, 
and could not forbear saying in a whisper to Emily, 
“ Do not fall in love with him, for he is a slippery 
fellow.” 

I call that rather partial,” exclaimed Mr. Ewell, 
with a coarse laugh ; “ you refused to go with me, and 
now you’re off with another.” 

She deigned no reply to either ; but, with a gentle 
dignity which well became her, ^ook the reins from 
her cousin, and trotted briskly out of the yard, the 
disappointed beauty gazing after them with a feeling 
of bitter envy. 

She entered the house out of humor with herself 
and everybody, where, after having thrown off her 
rich shawl, which with a tone of command she or- 
dered one of the servants to carry to her own room, 
she sat down to wait the coming of her lover. 

Whatever their quarrel had been, they both seemed 
determined not to repeat it on this occasion, but sat 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


179 


near eacli other on the sofa apparently engaged in 
looking over a book of costly engravings ; but their 
long whispers made it evident both to Mrs. Seaver 
and her aunt, that their minds were otherwise occu- 
pied. 

Fred, who was more of a favorite with his cousin 
than any one in the house, came behind her chair and, 
putting his arm familiarly on her shoulder, began to 
laugh at a new dress she had on. 

“ Get away, you little torment,” she said, angrily. 
“ See how you’ve tumbled my new collar. I agree 
with you, Mr. Ewell, that boys are dreadful plagues.” 

“ You didn’t always think so,” he retorted, passion- 
ately. “ You used to be glad to have me to frolic 
with before you went to school.” 

Mrs. Seaver this evening had invited Mrs. Everett 
and Harvey to take tea with her, not expecting Mr. 
Ewell would stay, as he had never before done so 
without a special invitation ; but on this occasion, he 
seemed determined to avoid every rule of propriety. 
After Harvey returned, he guarded Isabel so closely 
that, if he had wished, he could not have approached 


180 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


her. When the servant summoned them to tea, he 
rose, gave her his arm and walked out in advance of 
the rest. Through the meal his conduct so annoyed 
Mrs. Seaver that she could scarcely control her in- 
dignation. Most fervently she wished her husband 
were by her side, to dismiss the intruder from the' 
house. 

After tea he tried to detain his lady-love in the 
back parlor; but she preferred to join the other 
party. 

Fred heard him mutter, “You shall pay for this 
some time,” and ran to report to his sister. 

As conversation seemed out of the question, Mrs. 
Seaver proposed music ;’indeed, she needed the influ- 
ence of some soothing sounds to quell the excitement 
of her nerves. Isabel rose at once, saying to her 
lover, “ Do you remember the first piece you ever 
heard me play ? If I can remember it without the 
notes. I’ll play it now.” 

It was a noisy piece, ill suited to a parlor ; but 
Isabel, who had practised it in the large hall belong- 
ing to the seminary, beat the keys without mercy. 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


181 


Mrs. Seaver sat trying to calm herself with the 
assurance that the evening could not last forever, 
while her aunt calmly adjusting her glasses, took up 
the evening paper, and began to read. 

At last the interminable opera was finished, and 
Isabel, accustomed to receive flattery, looked around 
for admiration. 

Mr. Ewell checked himself in the act of clapping 
his hands to say to Mrs. Everett, “ You don’t seem 
to admire music. I call her playing rather remark- 
able.” 

“ I am glad you like it, sir,” she answered, with 
imperturbable gi’avity. 

Emily, fearing a scene, rose to leave the room ; but 
. Fred canght her hand, whispering, “ Don’t go, Em, 
there’ll be some good fun. Ewell is all lighted up 
just ready to blaze.” 

“ What’s that you say ? ” cried the enraged man, 
catching the child by the arm, and shaking him 
roughly. Then, turning fiercely on Mrs. Seaver he 
said, “ If you don’t teach your boy better manners, 
I’ll cowhide him.” 


182 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


This was more than the lady felt called to endure, 
in her own house. Drawing her figure up haughtily, 
she answered : 

“ Mr. Ewell, I have endured much from you ; I 
regret now to be obliged to say, that your presence 
here is not desired. My husband returns to-morrow, 
and will call upon you at the hotel.” 

“ I have staid now longer • than was any way 
agreeable to me,” he retorted, with a sneer, and am 
willing to go this very moment. Come, Isabel.” 

She hid her face in her handkerchief, but did not 
move. 

“ I do not know, sir,” Mrs. Seaver added with im- 
mense dignity, “ by w^hat authority you call my niece 
to follow you. She cannot leave the house until her 
guardian returns.” 

“ By the authority of a husband, ma’am,” he thun- 
dered out, bringing his fist down on the table with 
such force that it jarred the room. “ I rather think 
you wont dare to dispute the authority of the law. 
We were married a week before she left school.” 

The astonishment at this unexpected announce- 





“ By what authority do you call Isabel to accompany you ? ” 
“By the authority of a husband, madam.” 


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THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


183 • 


merit was so great, that not a sound could be heard 
except a hysterical sob from Isabel. 

“ Come, girl, don’t be a fool,” he exclaimed, touch- 
ing her familiarly on the shoulder, “you’ve got a 
husband to assert your rights ; and if that niggardly 
guardian of yours don’t fork over your property, 
he’ll find himself in trouble. Come.” 

The last word was spoken in such a tone of com- 
mand that the youthful bride dared not, or did not 
think it best, to disobey. For almost the first time 
in her life she felt she had acted hastily ; and now, 
disgusted with herself and with the man she had cho- 
sen as her husband, — especially provoked that Har- 
vey should have been present at such a crisis, — she 
rose and walked loftily from the room. 

Mr. Ewell, with a glance of defiance immediately 
followed, but turned back to say, “ You look aston- 
ished, Mrs. Seaver, but your husband will be more 
astonished when he finds I have a legal claim upon 
all my wife’s estates, and that I shall demand every 
cent of her due the moment she is eighteen years 
old.” 


184 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


“ Deluded child ! ” cried Mrs. Seaver sinking back 
in her chair. “ She has deceived herself as grossly 
as she has deceived him, if she thinks she can ever 
be happy with such a man.” 

Emily shuddered and hid her face ; while Fred, in 
his excitement, jumped two feet from the floor, ex- 
claiming, “ Hurrah for Isabel Ewell! To think of 
her being married all this time I ” 

' Mrs. Everett glanced at her son. His countenance 
bore an expression of strong contempt. He told her 
afterwards his first connected thought was, “ And I 
loved that girl once.” 

Mr. Seaver arrived the following day. He listened 
rith profound grief and surprise to the story that 
met him of his ward’s marriage. Mrs. Seaver re- 
lated in detail the annoyances to which she had been 
subjected, ending with the insulting threat which had 
been the means of his confession that he had a legal 
claim to Isabel and to her property. 

The next morning, the gentleman waited upon IMr. 
Ewell at the hotel, where, having sent up his name, 
he requested to be shown to their private parlor. 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


185 


“ Mr. Ewell, uncle,” said Isabel, rising from the 
sofa and avdancing to meet him.' 

“ And this is my wife, sir,” added the gentleman, 
aftftr coolly shaking the -proffered hand. “ I presume 
Mrs. Seaver has told you we were married before 
we came to P .” 

“ Have you a certificate of the marriage ? ” in- 
quired the guardian, in a business-like manner. 

“ Yes, I have ; here it is,” taking it from his pocket- 
book in an excited manner. 

Mr. Seaver read it deliberately from beginning to 
end. “ This seems all correct,” he remarked, “ and 
as it is past, no comments on my part are necessary. 
It only remains for me to make over to you, as her 
legal guardian, all the papers in my possession con- 
cerning her small patrimony.” 

“ Small patrimony ! ” echoed the husband, “ your 
ideas differ from mine if you call an estate that has 
a thousand valuable slaves upon it small” 

The bride rose hastily, and would have retreated. 

“ Keep your scat, Isabel,” shouted Mr. Ewell. 
“ I’m your husband ; and I’ll see that you have your 


186 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


rights. No, no, I want you here,” as she seemed to 
insist upon going. “ I’ll defend you.” 

Mr. Seaver sat perfectly calm and unmoved. He 
had been the witness of many scenes with this way- 
ward girl, and now his heart prompted no feeling 
toward her but pity. 

“ Here is a letter from the agent appointed by Mrs. 
Sandoval before her decease,” he added, when his 
hearer was quiet enough to listen ; “ the same I be- 
lieve who had charge of the estate wliile she was a 
widow. It contains a scheduleof the property. You 
see instead of a thousand slaves there were five, one 
of whom, Juba, considered the most valuable, was 
sold to pay her expenses to the States.” 

Mr. Ewell glanced his eye over the paper, then 
started to his feet, exclaiming, with a dreadful oath, 
“ You’ve cheated her. You’ve converted her prop- 
erty into money for your own use. I’ll go to Cuba. 
I’ll set off to-morrow. I’ll bring a suit against you. 
I’ll — ” 

“ Take care ! ” said Mr. Seaver, in a calm, resolute 
voice. “ I’ve been threatened before on Isabel’s 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


187 


account, as she well knows ; but there must be no 
charges of dishonesty. I advise you to go at once 
to the islands, and dispose of her estate as you see 
fit. If it is as she has led you to believe, I shall be 
a richer man by three hundred dollars than I was 
when she came to my house ; for exactly that amount 
I have paid for her out of my own pocket.” 

While he was speaking Mr. Ewell grew paler and 
paler. He sprang from his chair, and, approaching 
his wife, shook his fist in her face. “ Isabel,” he 
asked, in a thick, husky voice, “ have you dared to 
lie to me ? Tell me instantly what does this mean ? ” 

Her form trembled ; but she did not reply. 

He shook her roughly by the shoulder. 

She started to her feet, and stood confronting him. 

“ Dare to touch me in that way again ; and I’ll 
expose you, sir,” she exclaimed fiercely. 

Her guardian thought it time to interfere. “ This 
is not the way,” he said, “ to come to an explanation. 
Isabel has deceived you. I am sorry to say, you are 
not the first one she has deceived into trusting her. 
As soon as 1 heard of your attentions to my ward, I 


188 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


wrote urging her to tell you frankly the state of her 
property. She had heretofore represented herself 
as a rich heiress, and I feared she had done so in 
this case. She has also reported that I wa' trying 
to get her fortune into my own hands, that I was 
penurious, and would scarcely allow her enough to 
live upon.” 

“ Yes, that is what she told me,” exclaimed the 
disappointed bridegroom ; “ that and more. She said 
you had the benefit of her income while she remained 
unmarried and a minor, and Jherefore you would 
refuse your consent to our marriage.” 

“ On the contrary,” urged the gentleman, with a 
smile of bitter meaning, “ though I could not consci- 
entiously have consented to her marriage, while her 
education was far from completed, yet I consider it 
a great relief, both of care and money, to know that 
my guardianship has terminated so suddenly. 1 hope 
you will remember, however, when you are tried by 

your wife’s follies, that she is a mere child. She is 
seventeen next month.” 

“ Seventeen ! She told me she was eighteen.” 

O 


THE STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


189 


‘‘ I have another letter I wish to show you,” the 
gentleman went on. “ The agent writes me there 
will probably be an opportunity to sell. If you 
really intend to go to the West Indies, you may aid 
him by going at once. lYlien Isabel came away, he 
valued it at about two thousand dollars.” 

Mr. Ewell darted across the room so quickly that 
he upset a large chair in his progress. “ Two thou- 
sand dollars, instead of two hundred thousand ! Isa- 
bel, you shall pay for this deceit.” 

“I don’t believe the agent. He is a cross old 
fudge,” exclaimed the bride, loftily. “ He makes it 
out that the estate is worthless, so as to put money 
in his pocket.” 

“ That was the way you talked of your guardian,” 
cried her husband, interrupting her. 

“ It will be easy for you to judge when you get 
there,” remarked Mr. Seaver, in a slightly contempt- 
uous tone. 

He rose, and, pushing the letters of the agent and 
other papers toward Mr. Ewell, said, “ Whatever 
your opinion of me may have been, my own con- 


190 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


science bears me witness that I have acted toward 
my sister’s child as she would have wished, and, in 
a pecuniary view, better than she had any right to 
expect. I have nothing more to say, except to offer 
you my best wishes for your mutual happiness and 
prosperity, and to beg you to remember that in order 
to ensure that, you must bear and forbear, never for- 
getting that God is ever ready to bless those who 
truly repent of their sins and trust in his Son for 
salvation. 

He held Isabel’s hand - affectionately for "one mo- 
ment, leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then 
left the room. 

When he had gone the young bride threw herself 
on the lounge, and gave way to a passionate burst 
of grief. 


CHAPTER Xy. 


THE MOTHER’S DEATH. 

Two years later, let us visit Mrs. Ewell in Xew 
York. She resides in a handsome part of the city, 
in an elegant freestone house, owned by her husband. 

Soon after their interview with Mr. Seaver, they 
left for Cuba, where, by a most fortunate speculation 
in mahogany and rosewood, he added considerably 
to his own fortune, and succeeded in establishing 
himself in business. They remained at the Islands 
more than a year, and then went to New York, 
where he established a branch house. Isabel’s beauty 
attracted great attention, so that he was quite proud 
of her, whose only object in life seemed to be to 
promenade the streets and display to the best advan- 
tage her splendid figure and rich attire. 


191 


192 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


During the years that had passed she had not 
improved in temper, though she had learned to fear 

4 

her husband. 

Mr. Ewell was a tyrant, both by nature and prac- 
tice. Having been early disappointed in his wife’s 
fortune, he grew neglectful of her wishes, and at last 
was so far alienated from her that they sometimes 
did not see each other for days together. When 
they returned to the States, however, her appearance, 
both in public and in private circles, created so much 
excitement, that he became more affectionate in pub- 
lic, rewarding himself when they were alone by the 
most absolute contempt. 

He was fond of making a show ; and as he really 
had quite a fortune, he allowed her a handsome sum 
for her own use, every cent of which, he was sure, 
would be spent for the adornment of her person. 

Educated as she had been, it was not to be sup- 
posed that she would order her house according to 
the most approved methods. Indeed, there was little 
order about it, each of the servants doing that which 
was right in his own eyes. Mrs. Ewell lay in bed 


THE mother’s death. 


193 


till a late hour, and generally took her breakfast in 
her richly furnished boudoir. Not a thought was 
given to her husband’s convenience, — self was her 
only idol. 

At about eleven or twelve she dressed for the 
street, where she promenaded for several hours, 
tumbling over the splendid silks and laces at the 
most fashionable stores, and annoying the clerks with 
questions concerning the various prices. They soon 
grew to understand her character, and gave her 
credit for one trait peculiar to herself. She was 
independent of public opinion, and never bought an 
article because assured that another lady, it might 
be at the height of the ton, had purchased from the 
same piece. 

At half-past three, she sat down to a luxurious 
dinner, with the same freedom from care as if she 
were at a table d’hote ; but at what expense, what 
waste, she cared not to inquire. Her servants, whom 
she treated alternately with excessive familiarity 
and' insolent severity, seldom remained long in her 

employ, but as their places were soon supplied by 
13 


194 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Others, and her pleasures were not interfered with, 
she did not worry herself about the consequences. 

Occasionally she met an acquaintance from P 

or one of her schoolmates from Mrs. Summer’s sem- 
inary, and invited them to dine, more in order to 
exhibit her handsome table and delicious viands, 
than from any real desire to continue their acquaint- 
ance. In the evening there was always some favor- 
ite play to be acted, some distinguished singer, or 
some party to occupy her time until midnight. 

And thus she passed day after day, in the cease- 
less pursuit of pleasure, never satisfied; the same 
victim of art and untruthfulness she had ever 
been, rushing heedlessly on the journey of life, little 
imagining how speedily she would reach that point 
where, in bitter anguish of spirit, she would exclaim, 
with the wise man of old, “ Vanity of vanities, all 
is vanity and vexation of spirit; ” or, like her mother, 
“ I am weary, weary of life.” 

At the same period that this youthful beauty was 
seemingly in the enjoyment of every thing -tliat 
heart could desire, her cousin Emily was plunged into 


THE mother’s death. 


195 


the deeepest affliction she had ever known. Her 
mother, after a short but severe attack of lung fever 
and pleurisy, was suddenly called from her earthly 
to her heavenly home. In the midst of her dying 
agonies, she yet had strength to bear testimony to 
the religion she had loved while in health. 

“ Jesus, my Saviour, is with me ; he supports me ; 
I shall soon be at rest — the rest he has promised his 
people,” were the precious words she gasped, at long 
intervals. Then again, “ Oh, how worthless seems 
every thing now, compared with his love, his favor ! 
He is mine and I am his, — purchased by his pre- 
cious blood.” 

She called each of her dear family to her, and, in 
a few short words, entreated them to live devoted 
lives, and then bade them her last farewell. 

Emily was now the one, under God, upon whom 
the afflicted husband leaned in his terrible affliction. 
The stroke had fallen heavily upon her, and, had she 
consulted her own wishes, she would have retired to 
her own apartment to mourn and weep. But by di- 
vine grace she was enabled to cast her burden of 


196 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


sorrow at the foot of the eross, and thus to perform 
every duty. With a composed manner, though with 
blanched cheeks, she went around from room to room 
preparing for the mournful occasion when they 
should pay their last tribute to her whose face they 
would see no more on earth. With her own hands 
she prepared the beloved form for its last resting- 
place, and then scattered fragrant flowers over the 
coffin and the sepulchre. 

Poor Fred wandered from chamber to chamber 
after her, his eyes strained and bloodshot from weep- 
ing, his heart aching with the feeling which none but 
a motherless boy can know. 

“We shall go to her, dear brother,” murmured 
Emily, “ if we remember her words of instruction. 
We shall spend an eternity together in praising the 
Lamb who died to remove the sting of death. Mother 
died happy, trusting in his power to save her, be- 
cause while in health she had given her heart to him 
and endeavored to keep his commands. We will try 
will we not, Fred, to imitate her example, and pre- 
pare for death while in the midst of life ? ” 


THE mother’s death. 


197 


To her father she said, “ Heaven never seemed so 
near as now, since it is the everlasting home of 
mother. I love to imagine her walking the golden 
streets, sitting beside the living streams, and singing 
the songs of redemption with Deborah, and Miriam, 
and Esther, and all the holy women of the New 
Testament.” 

When they returned from the grave, the bereaved 
husband lost all self-control. In agony of grief he 
paced the floor, crying, “ O Emma ! Emma ! shall I 
never again see your welcoming smile, or hear your 
loved voice ? Gracious God, help me ! Support 
me, or I shall sink ! Give me grace to say. Thy 
will, not mine, be done ! ” 

For a time poor Emily, too, was so overcome that 
she could not command her voice to speak ; but, after 
a silent prayer for help, she approached her father, 
and, laying her hand on his arm, said, softly, “ Will 
you please read,” holding out the Bible, “ only a few 
verses about the blessedness of heaven.” 

He folded his arms around her. “ O, my daugh- 
ter ! my heart sinks when I t^ink she has left me. 


198 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


It was so sudden, so unexpected. To the last I had 
hope. But you are right ; let us dwell on her gain, 
-rather than on our dreadful loss. Even you can 
scarcely know, my child, what she has been to me. 
Her consistent Christian example first led me to re- 
view my own life, and finally to embrace her Saviour 
as mine.” 

He paused, and wept freely. Before this he had 
not been able to shed one tear. 

The children wept with him, Fred holding one 
hand tightly in his own. At last, in a voice fal- 
tering with emotion, Emily began to read, “ And 
there shall be no night there. And God shall wipe 
away all tears, and there shall be no more death, 
neither sorrow, nor crying ; neither shall there be any 
more pain, for the former things are passed away.” 

These blessed words soothed the bleeding heart of 
the mourner. When she had finished, he said, softly, 
“ Let us pray, that we may be prepared for that glo- 
rious inheritance.” 

It was an augmentation of the grief of the family 
that Mrs. Everett, usually so efficient in every hour 


THE mother’s death. 


199 


of trial, was now absent from home, and could not 
receive the mournful intelligence until the grave 
had closed over her they loved. 

Harvey, or Dr. Everett, as he was now called, had 
been for more than a year in Europe, and was ex- 
pected still to remain abroad for several months. 
They heard from him, however, very frequently, 
and were satisfied that, while he was progressing 
rapidly in his studies, his heart still glowed with 
affection for those he had left behind. 

“ Poor Harvey,” said Emily, as, a few weeks after 
her mother’s decease, she sat in the cottage with her 
aunt, rehearsing the painful scenes, “ how sincerely 
he will mourn. She was a true friend to him.” 

“ Ah, how little dependence can be placed on our 
own plans,” answered the old lady, greatly affected. 
“ She was so much younger than I am, that I natu- 
rally looked to her to be my comfort and nurse 
when I should be called away.” 

“ Dear aunt,” cried Emily, seizing her hand, ^ I 
will do my utmost to take her place, if God spares 
my life.” 


200 


AKT AND ARTLESSNESS. 


Mrs. Everett leaned forward and kissed her cheek. 
“ You have always been a comfort to me, dear child.” 

They sat together for a time, Mrs, Everett think- 
ing of the future, and Emily wondering how soon 
Harvey would return, and what he would say when 
he found her occupying the place of mistress in her 
father’s family. 

Though shrinking from so great a responsibility, 
she had felt it to be her duty to take that position, 
instead of employing a housekeeper, as her father 
had suggested. She was jealous of his comfort, and 
thought she could anticipate his wishes far better than 
a stranger. Then Fred was just of an age when 
a sister’s influence is all-powerful. He was much 
changed by his mother’s death, and she wished to 
improve the period while his mind was softened 
by this afflictive providence, to urge him to devote 
himself wholly to his Saviour. The subject had 
been freely discussed in all its bearings, and, as 
they knew no one who would be suitable for the 
situation, they each felt that if she had strength, 
there was no one to be preferred to Emily. 


THE MOTHER S DEATH. 


201 


Before she decided whether to undertake the trust, 
— for the young girl well understood that it involved 
the giving up of her own ease, and even of sacrificing 
the time she hoped to devote to the improvement of 
her mind, — she asked God to direct her choice, 
according to his own will concerning her. Then, 
having prayerfully decided that it was her duty, she 
daily asked wisdom from on high, to direct and 
strengthen her. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 

It was the evening of a lovely day in June, sev- 
eral months later, that Emily Seaver was out riding 
on horseback, accompanied by her brother Fred, and 
a class-mate of his who was visiting at her father’s 
house. 

The young lady, now just entering her twentieth 
year, was rosy with health, while her sweet lips 
were parted in a pleasant smile, when the carriage 
from the depot dashed past them. 

“ Why, there’s Harvey ! ” cried Emily, her eyes 
sparkling, and her cheeks flushing with joy. 

“ Hurrah for Harvey Everett ! ” shouted Fred, 
lifting himself on his stirrups, and swinging his cap 
in his excitement. 


202 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 


203 


They put the horses to their speed, and, though 
more than a quarter of a mile from home, reached 
the cottage gate just as the driver, having taken from 
his coach some half dozen well-worn trunks, was 
receiving his pay from the traveller. 

Harvey sprang forward when he saw them, and 
catching the hand of Emily, said, quickly, “ I recog- 
nized you at once. Ai’e you glad to see me ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, indeed, you are very welcome,” her eyes 
for one moment meeting his ; but suddenly she re- 
membered there was one who always had welcomed 
him, now lying quietly in her grave ; her lip quivered, 
and turning abruptly from him, she rode on to her 
own door. 

She is thinking of her mother,” apologized Mrs. 
Everett, meeting the wondering gaze of her son. 

‘‘ Dear aunt, I cannot realize that I shall not see 
her pleasant face nor hear her kind words.” 

Emily had scarcely alighted from her horse, when 
she saw her aunt and cousin coming through the 
garden and advanced to meet them, holding up her 


204 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


riding-skirt, and smiling at the figure she was 
making. 

Harvey gazed at her in surprise. She had grown 
an inch or two during his absence, and her hair, 
which she had formerly worn in her neck, was now 
braided in wide plaits, and fastened up under her 
riding-cap. Her form, too, was more fully developed, 
and showed to the best advantage in her neatly fitting 
basque. Her complexion, always fair, was of that 
beautiful softness like a baby’s, the color coming and 
going in her cheeks with every fresh emotion. 

“ How wonderfully improved,” was the traveller’s 
first delighted thought. ‘‘ I have seen nothing more 
fair and beautiful in all my wanderings.” 

They entered the house together, Fred having ran 
on to announce the joyful tidings to his father. Har- 
vey stood a moment gazing around on the familiar 
scene, the very chairs extending their arms in glad 
welcome, “ All the same,” he said, softly, “ and yet 
how different without her who was the life of the 
family circle ! ” 

“ She spoke of you within the last hour,” began 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 


205 


Emily, her eyes filling with tears. “ But here is 
father,” she said, controlling herself instantly, “try to 
be calm for his sake, dear Harvey.” 

He would have done anything, however difficult, 
with that sweet voice sounding in his ear. The 
meeting with his uncle was not without emotion on 
both sides ; but by the daughter’s ever watchful solic- 
itude it was not too painful for the bereaved husband. 

A few moments longer he tarried, though in his 
dusty, travel-worn garments, finding it difficult to 
tear himself away from the contemplation of some 
ever new charm, and then, as a servant appeared at 
the door with the request to see her young mistress 
he hurried from the house. 

“ How beautiful Emily has grown,” he said, an 
hour later, as he sat down to a lunch carefully 
prepared by the faithful Abigail. 

“ I have not noticed any particular change,” said 
the old lady, dryly. 

“ Not noticed it ! why I have not seen her equal 
in all Europe.” 

“I should probably agree with you there,” she 


206 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


went on, her eyes twinkling ; “ but then I always 
thought her beautiful.” 

He went on eating for a moment, vexed with him- 
self, as he always was at the most distant allusion to 
Isabel. 

“ I saw the servant appealed to her,” he said, at 
length. 

“ Yes, she has the whole care of her father’s fam- 
ily, and devotes herself to his comfort with more than 
a daughter’s tenderness. She has developed into a 
noble Christian woman.” 

He grew more thoughtful. Presently she added. 

You know I am not given to overmuch praise ; but 
the charm of her character is her perfectly artless, 
confiding affection for those about her, and her truth- 
ful self-sacrificing devotion to her duty, whatever that 
may be.” 

“ Mother,” he cried, after having finished his meal 
in silence and drummed on the window quite in his 
old way, while Abigail was removing the dishes, 
— “ mother, I am going to ask Emily Seaver to be 
my wife.” 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 


207 


“Yes, I supposed you would,” she answered, 
quietly ; “ but I am not sure she will feel it to be 
her duty to leave her father.” 

“ Pshaw ! as if he could not find a housekeeper.” 

“ He may say the same to you. Emily is invalu- 
able to his comfort. • Then her influence with Fred no 
one can calculate. One thing is certain, however, if 
she returns your affection she will aeknowledge it 
frankly, though the truth may cost her some blushes.” 

Mrs. Everett was right. Emily confessed that she 
regarded her cousin as she did no one else, but that 
her father, for the present at least, needed her, and 
she could not leave him. 

“ Let him decide,” urged Harvey warmly ; but she 
firmly, though in the most gentle manner, declined. 

“ No,” she said, “ I know what he would decide ; 
but that need not affect our happiness. I am young 
yet, and you surely are not in such a hurry to settle 
in life.” 

Her manner was so soft and yielding, and yet her 
words so decided, he scarcely knew what to think. 


208 


ART AND ARTLESESNSS. 


“ Emily,” he asked, “ will no amount of urging cause 
you to change your mind ? ” 

“ Yes : if you can convince me that it is my duty.” 

But I don’t wish you to marry me from a sense 
of duty.” 

She looked searchingly in his face for a moment, 
and then answered, ‘‘ I am indeed deceived in you, 
Harvey, if you mean what you say. I have con- 
fessed that I loved you enough to — to choose you 
for my husband ; but my love would be worthless if 
my duty in such a choice did not go hand in hand 
with my affection.” 

“ Perhaps you wished to remind me,” he said, 
pettishly, “that there was a time when love and 
duty did not walk the same path.” 

“ No,” she answered, with a grieved expression ; 
but presently brightening, added, “ I see very plainly 
that you are not perfect, and that you need some one 
who loves you to tell you your faults.” 

“ If I wait patiently, to how long a probation do 
you condemn me? ” 

She smiled, though her cheeks were crimson, as 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 


209 


she asked, “ And do you think, then, it is no trial to 
me?” 

“ O, Emily, if I thought that ! ” he began, and 
then, interrupting himself, went on, “ You have con- 
quered, I am convinced. Mother and you are right, 
and I was wrong ; all wrong. I will wait with what 
courage I can as long as you say ; but on one con- 
dition, that you will tell me when I may get a certifi- 
cate. Isn’t that fair ? ” 

“ But you are not settled in your profession yet, 
and there is no telling where you may have to go.” 

“ You have not answered my question.” 

“ I promise.” 

For a few weeks the young doctor was immensely 
busy. He was up early in the morning, and rode ofi* 
with as great speed as if called to a dying patient. 
Then he came in the evening, with such a mysterious, 
know-something air, that Emily could not imagine 
what to make of him. Presently her father was 
admitted to the secret, and there were sundry con- 
sultations in the library ; still the young mistress was 

kept in the dark. 

14 


210 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


But at length, about a fortnight after Harvey’s 
return, Mr. Seaver, his daughter, and son were 
invited to dine at the cottage, where the young lady 
was rather surprised to see their family physician. 
Dr. Gregory, in earnest consultation with her be- 
trothed. 

The old gentleman arose at once and greeted her 
with some formality; then, turning to Dr. Everett, 
said, ‘‘Miss Seaver, shall I have the pleasure of 
introducing you to my partner.” 

She was silent from astonishment, as not a suspicion 
of this had ever occurred to her. 

“ ‘ Circumstances alter cases,’ is as good a proverb 
as it ever was,” he whispered, taking her hand and 
leading her to the window. “ Your father approves. 
We are to be married at once, and live with him. 
All that is wanting is your consent.” 

“ Which I accord cheerfully,” she said, in her own 
artless manner. 

“ I suppose that is what you mean, then, by duty 
and affection walkmg hand in hand.” 

“Yes, I suppose so; but I confess I am rather 


THE traveller’s RETURN. 


211 


confused by so many unexpected circumstances. 
I don’t see how all this could be accomplished so 
speedily.” 

Cupid has wings you know,” he remarked, smil- 
ing archly. 


CHAPTER XYII. 


THE CONTRAST. 

A FEW weeks later than the anniversary of her 
mother’s death, the papers of the neighboring city 
announced the marriage of “ Harvey Everett, M.D., 
to Miss Emily Seaver, only daughter of Horace 
Seaver, Esq., of P . ” 

After a short tour to the lakes they returned to her 
father’s house, where, in her absence, great changes 
had been made. 

Mrs. Everett, wishing to give the young people a 
wedding present, had proposed to Mr. Seaver to run 
out a bay-window from the parlor and the room over 
it, the expense of which she would pay, and then she 
could furnish them as she pleased. The workmen 

were engaged, the lumber ready, and no sooner were 

212 


THE CONTRAST. 


213 


the happy pair started on their journey, than the 
labor proceeded with great vigor. 

In the mean time the old lady went to the city and 
herself selected carpets, furniture, and mirrors, to- 
gether with a few choice pictures, which in due time 
found their way to the newly-arranged rooms ; so that 
when, at the close of the fourth week. Dr. and Mrs. 
Everett returned, they found all in readiness for 
their reception. 

To say that the young people were pleased at this 
unexpected token of affection, would but poorly ex- 
press their feelings. Every article was examined 
and re-examined with ever new delight, and when 
at a period not far distant the giver was called from 
her earthly to her heavenly home, they valued her 
gifts with increased pleasure, as her own selection. 

In the happiness of his children, Mr. Seaver at 
length came to view with calmness the stroke of 
Providence which had deprived him of his loved 
companion ; convinced that she was not lost, but 
gone before him to 'the heavenly mansions. 

Fred went to college, and at last chose the law 


214 


ART AND ARTLESSNESS. 


as his profession. Under influences so hallowed as 
those which surrounded his youth, he became an 
earnest Christian man, and sought to be governed in 
his business bj^he law of God. 

The career of Emily after her marriage was as 
difierent from that of her cousin as it had been be- 
fore. She became truly a help-meet to her husband, 
reverencing him according to the injunction of Paul, 
— preferring his interests to her own, and endeavor- 
ing, in the whole of her most happy union, to set an 
example worthy of imitation to the numerous chil- 
dren which grew up around her. 

Isabel lived on a few years in her handsome house 
in New York, unloving and unloved. She had no 
children, and for a time she desired none ; but in 
after years, when deserted by her husband, whose 
affection had been given unlawfully to a stage-actress, 
she yearned for one to love and be a comfort to 
her. 

At the age of thirty she was considered old. Her 
rich bloom had entirely faded, her raven hair was 
thickly threaded with silver, her eyes, formerly so 


IT 


THE CONTRAST. 215 

lustrous, now expressed only the discontent and 
melancholy which marked her whole character. 

There came at length an hour to this artful, de- 
signing woman, which almost always comes to all 
such, when she would gladly have exchanged all the 
pleasures of the world, the admiration and applause 
of gay, fashionable society, for one hour of real 
peace — such as flows from the gracious Spirit into 
the heart of every believer. She opened the book 
of God ; but to her it was a sealed volume ; and at 
last, despised by her old friends, disgusted with life, 
she sought in the excitement of card-playing a solace 
for her woes, and thus dragged out a weary, misera- 
ble existence, “without God, and without hope in 
the world.” 


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THE LYNN BRIDE. 


CHAPTER I. 
mart’s early life. 

It was the hour of twilight. Cold, wintry clouds 
were skirting the lower part of the horizon, rapidly 
shutting out the light of day, and leaving the air 
chilly and cold. Though early in the autumn, yet 
there had been frequent gusts of wind, making free 
with the foliage which remained upon the trees, 
while heavy clouds had hung about the sky with 
an occasional gleam of sunshine, rendering the 
succeeding gloom only the more drear. 

And now one could hardly distinguish the leaf- 
less trees, surrounding the low building which is 
the scene of my sketch ; yet the pale mourner, 

sitting by the window, stirred not. Under ordinary 

219 


220 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


circumstances, she would have drawn the curtain 
and joined the circle in a contiguous apartment, 
who were sitting around a cheerful fire ; but now 
the darkness and gloom which reigned without had 
sunk into her heart. She was alone in the world ; 
she felt that she was alone ; while silent tears, all 
unheeded by her, followed each other in quick 
succession down her cheek. On the following day, 
she was to consign the mortal remains of her hus- 
band to the silent tomb. He had gone from her 
forever. 

For a while she sat, dead to every feeling, save 
a crushing sense of desolation. She had, it is 
true, a brother and sister ; but they were entirely 
engrossed in the cares which the support of their 
rising families were bringing upon them. Months 
of sickness had more than exhausted all her re- 
sources, and had left her feeble and languid, depen- 
dent upon the charity of friends. Dependent ! 
O, how tightly she clasped her hands as she 
repeated that word ! She could think no more ; 
but, leaning her head upon her arm, she wept bit- 


■i 


MARY’S EARLY LIFE. 


221 


terly. Tears, even bitter tears, will bring relief. 
Gradually the sobs grew less heavy and frequent, 
the tears ceased to flow, and memory was carry- 
ing her back far into the past, even to the time 
when she, with her brother and sister, used to 
play before the old cottage door, when the orchard 
resounded with their shouts of delight and their 
merry peals of laughter. How distinct in her ear 
was the voice of her good mother calling them to 
supper, and the happiness she felt at the praise of 
her father when she had completed her allotted task ! 

Now she advances to her girlhood. The sickness 
and death of her father, and, a few years subse- 
quent, that of her mother, pass in solemn review 
before her. Insensibly, the same outstretched arm 
which was then her support seems now under- 
neath her. The Father of the fatherless, whose 
promise she had so oft pleaded in prayer, will not 
forsake her. She remembers the comfort which 
filled her soul as she cast all her burden upon him, 
and resolves to trust him still. He who had been 
her refuge through many fierce storms of adversity, 


222 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


will not turn a deaf ear to the cries of her poor 
widowed heart. 

True, the friend whom she mourned was more 
suited in age for her grandparent than her hus- 
band ; true, that his querulousness and childish- 
ness had often been more than she could well 
bear : but all this she forgets, or only remembers 
with joy, that her strength has been equal to her 
day, and that she has been graciously assisted to 
bear patiently and uncomplainingly the trials visited 
upon her. She recalls with pleasure his early acts 
of charity, when thrown upon him for protection, 
and the many kindly deeds which had won the 
gratitude, if not the love, of her young heart ; and 
she mourns truly that she shall see his face no 
more. 

A few weeks later we find Mary comfortably 
situated in the family of a Friend ; — and never was 
appellation more deservedly bestowed upon a 
Quaker, for the name of Amy Low sent a warm 
gush of feeling through many a heart. Her fre- 
quent and unobtrusive acts of kindness to the 


Mary’s early life. 


223 


afflicted and sorrowful, gave a lustre to her eye 
and a glow to her cheek such as naught else could 
give, and made her the well-beloved even among 
her own sect, where all hearts are kept warm by a 
constant exercise of love and charity. 

Mary had received a cordial invitation to make 
her home with Amy for the winter, which was 
earnestly seconded by John and all the family; 
and Mary Eames was comparatively happy. She 
felt the influence of the frank, sincere contentment 
around her, and, as she sat busily plying her needle, 
— for she was never idle, — she looked back upon 
the fiery billows over which she had passed, and 
said to herself, truly, “blessed is he who maketh 
the Lord his trust.” 

She had already begun to make her plans for 
the future. It was her intention to take a small 
room, and support herself with her needle. This 
gave her an object, and her kind friends assisted 
her in obtaining work, that she might lay by some- 
thing for that purpose. Amy often came into her 
room with a cheering word. 


224 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


Thee has had a hard time, Mary ; but bright 
days are before thee. Thee art young, and deserve 
a young husband next time.” 

At which Mary would shake her head, and say, 
in a low, sad voice, at the remembrance of the 
past, — 

“I shall never marry again.” 

Mrs. Eames’ dutiful conduct to her parents, her 
devoted care of an aged husband, much more than 
twice her age, and her simple, unostentatious piety, 
had gained her many friends. She was invited 
to join a benevolent circle, and soon had the satis- 
faction of feeling that she still could do something 
in the way of charity. This sewing circle, unlike 
many others, met for a specific object; and the 
only strife among them was, which should do the 
most to promote the cause in which they were 
engaged. They had, with one consent, banished 
from among them all scandal and unkind words, 
and were, of course, warmly attached to each other. 

Ailer her admission to the circle, few were more 
constant at the meetings, or more diligent when 


Mary’s early life. 


225 


present, than Mary Eames, who thus won the 
confidence and affection of all those with whom 
she was associated. 

The sun of prosperity began now to shine upon 
her path, and to open the buds of hope around her. 
Her days were passing quietly away, cheered by 
the sympathy and benevolence of her friends, in 
whose kind care we will leave her for a season. 


15 


CHAPTER n. 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 

About forty miles distant from the opening 
scene of our story lay the village of Edgeworth. 
Nearly a week after the events there narrated, Mr. 
Harrington, a middle-aged man, returned from 
the post office, which was more than a mile from 
his house, and, after attending to the comfort of 
his domestic animals, and seeing that all was safe 
for the night, drew the curtains, set out the light- 
stand, and drawing up his arm chair before the 
fire, began to put the embers together and make a 
blaze preparatory to reading his weekly paper. 

He commenced, as was his custom, with the 
first article, and read each succeeding one in order, 

omitting nothing. The evening was quite advanced 

226 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH 


22T 


when he came, in due course, to “ Marriages ” and 
“ Deaths.” 

“Married, October 10th, by the Rev. T. H. 
Symmes, Mr. Rufus Howe to Miss Caroline Tain- 
ter, both of Bosworth. 

“On the 12th instant, by Rev. J. A. Spencer, Mr. 
John Morrill to Mrs. Susan Averill, relict of the 
late Colonel Averill, of Freetown, Mass.,” &c. 

These he read through with scrupulous exactness, 
though not without a sigh at his own lonely con- 
dition. 

Patience, good man ! thy turn may come sooner 
than thou listeth. 

Then, snuffing the candle, he proceeded to the 
deaths. 

“ October 2d, died, at his residence in Crawford, 
Mr. Lewis Howarth, aged 62. 

“In Melville, on the 5th instant, Mr. Samuel 
Fames, a revolutionary veteran, at the advanced 
age of ninety years.” 

Here a sudden exclamation of “ What ! ” and a 
quick repetition of the last announcement, proved 


228 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


that his mind was not so intent upon the matter 
as his serious manner seemed to indicate. This 
time, his reading, however, showed his whole soul 
to be absorbed in the fact that, on the 5th instant, 
Mr. Samuel Eames, aged ninety, had departed this 
life. 

But why this emotion ? Why is the paper, 
just now so earnestly desired, hastily thrown aside ? 
Was he thy kinsman ? Art thou expecting aught 
of his worldly estate ? No, neither. These would 
hardly cause the emotion which agitated him for 
the next hour, as he sat leaning on the arm of his 
chair, looking steadily into the fire. At length he 
breathed more freely, and with the exclamation, 
“ Then she is free, and may be mine, to bless my 
solitary heart ! ” arose, and began to walk steadily 
across the room. 

While he is walking thus, we will go back a little 
in his history, and endeavor to assign some reason 
for the intensity of feeling here excited. 

Levi Harrington was born and brought up in 
the small village of Edgeworth. When about 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 


229 


twenty years of age he married the daughter of a 
neighboring farmer, with whom he lived for many 
years, when she died, and left him three children, 
the youngest ten years of age. Upon the mar- 
riage of his daughter, he was solicited by his 
friends to seek another wife ; but, among all his 
acquaintance in the village, he knew of none 
whom he wished to recognize in that relation. He 
had never been twenty miles from home in his life ; 
and he determined not to be in haste, but to wait 
until Providence should direct his course. 

A lady, who had been a particular friend of his 
wife, called one afternoon to see him, and, after 
expressing her strong interest in him as the hus- 
band of her best friend, remarked that she knew 
of one person who would just suit him. 

He inquired, with a smile, “ Is there any pros- 
pect of my success ? ” 

“ Why, yes,” said she, returning his smile, “ if 
you choose to wait. She is about the age of Sa- 
rah,” — naming his deceased wife, — “ but is mar- 
ried to a man old enough to be her grandfather. 


230 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


I heard, a short time since, that he was very low. 
He was so old that his friends thought he could 
not hold out much longer, and he may have died 
before now.” 

“ What is the name of this lady who would just 
suit me?” 

“ Mary • Eames.” 

“ Mary Eames ! What, she that was a Coan ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, Tve heard a right good name of her,” 
continued Mr. Harrington, now becoming quite 
interested in the conversation. “And you say 
they think he won’t live long ? ” 

“ Why, yes ; neighbor Woodly saw him a week 
or two since, and he said that the old man’s mind 
and memory were almost gone, and he thought, 
much of the time, Mary was his daughter that 
died. He has outlived his usefulness, and I rather 
think poor Mary has a trying time of it.” 

“Well, how does she get along with him? ” 

“Why, Mr. Woodly says she is the patientest 
soul that he ever saw, and that it made his heart 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 


231 


ache to hear him talk to her, and find so much 
fault with what she did. Yet he would let no one 
else do any thing for him. If she was out of his 
sight a moment, he’d call ‘ Betsy,’ — his deceased 
daughter’s name, — ‘ how dare you stay there, when 
I want you this minute?”’ 

After this interview, the sad tale of Mary 
Eames’s trials constantly recurred to him ; and, 
at the end of the following week, when on thg 
way to see the lady wljo had first mentioned her, 
he was astonished at himself for the interest hn 
took in a person whom he had never seen. Hq 
went purposely to ask if any thing had been heard 
from the old gentleman, but he did not propose 
the question until he was about to depart. Mrs. 
Williams had heard nothing more, but would in- 
quire. 

“O,” he stammered, “it is of no — no — con- 
sequence; only your account of them quite in- 
terested me.” 

After this, Mrs. Williams, with true womanly 
tact, k^pt him informed of the condition of Mr. 


232 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


Eames, without waiting for him to ask, seldom 
mentioning the name of Mary, except to answer 
the inquiries occasionally ventured by Mr. Har- 
rington. 

About two years subsequent to the marriage 
of his daughter, his eldest son followed her ex- 
ample, and went from home, leaving him, with 
his young son, to take care of the farm and 
small dairy. 

I will not attempt to describe his feelings of 
loneliness and sorrow, mingled with hope deferred, 
as year after year rolled away, nor the several 
stages through which his mind passed, until he 
had fully resolved to ^‘bide his time,” and “wait 
for Mary’s love.” He resisted the oft-urged en- 
treaties of his children, that he would provide a 
suitable person to keep his house and attend to 
the concerns of his family. He was determined 
to guard against every thing which might pos- 
sibly influence the object of his choice, and pre- 
vent her from becoming his wife. Indeed, he 
had so often made and settled his course whei>- 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 


233 


ever she should be free, had spent so many 
hours in thinking of her, and planning what he 
would do when she came to. Edgeworth, that he 
felt sure she would consent to be his. 

He never realized that all this time poor 
Mary was ignorant that there was such a per- 
son as himself in existence ; that she was grow- 
ing prematurely old by means of her daily and 
hourly toils. The thought entered not his mind 
that, worn out by her unceasing watch and care, 
she might be called away from the trials of 
earth. No ; all his thoughts and feelings cen- 
tred in this, — he needed a wife, and he had 
chosen Mary Eames. 

And how did he feel all this time toward the 
aged veteran who stood between him and his 
hopes ? Strange as it may seem, he had no 
desire to deprive the helpless old man of one 
moment of his allotted life, who had long ago 
passed his threescore years and ten, and who, 
he thought, in all human probability, could not 
live much longer. He was willing to wait ; he 


234 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


would wait patiently, as Jacob waited for Rachel, 
provided he was not constrained to take some 
Leah. 

He now seldom left home, except to visit his 
children and the kind friend, Mrs. Williams, to 
whom alone he confided his intentions and his 
hopes. 

She entered warmly into his feelings, encour- 
aged him, under the circumstances, to live alone, 
and thus avoid the occasion for idle talk ; and 
did, what it has often been said woman cannot 
do, keep his secret ; never, by look or tone, in- 
timating that he was more interested than com- 
mon humanity would dictate, in the trials of 
Mary Eames, when she and her afflictions were 
the subject of conversation. 

Mr. Harrington often heard, apparently un- 
moved, high encomiums bestowed upon her 
patience and submission under the dispensations 
of Providence. This he treasured up as a sub- 
ject of thought during his many hours of loneli- 
ness and grief. 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 


235 


At length came the unwelcome intelligence 
that, exhausted by her ceaseless watching and 
care, Mary lay upon a bed of sickness, and was 
so much reduced that her friends feared she 
never would recover. This was what he had 
not anticipated, and it almost overwhelmed him. 
For a while the poor man was bewildered, and 
could think of nothing. 

For years he had so connected her in his 
thoughts with every thing he did, and every 
thing he intended to do, that now he seemed 
thrown into the midst of a wild sea, without 
anchor or compass. Yes, this was true ; and 
all his sorrow on account of one whom” he had 
never seen ! Surely, no one will doubt the 
romance of real life. 

Mrs. Williams often called to see him, and to 
sympathize with him ; and, though for months 
she could convey no favorable intelligence, she 
softened the tidings as much as lay in her 
power. 

At last she informed him that a decided im- 


236 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


provement had taken place, and that strong 
hopes were entertained of Mary’s recovery. 
From this time the accounts were very cheering. 
The old gentleman, who now recognized no one, 
had been removed to a hospital, and his wife, 
free from the care which had preyed upon her 
mind, was fast recovering. 

We now come to the time when we first intro- 
duced Mr. Harrington to the reader, and are 
prepared to explain the sudden outburst of feel- 
ing caused by those few lines in his weekly 
journal. During the time we have occupied in 
this sketch of his life he has made -and over- 
turned twenty plans. He finds it harder to act, 
now that the opportunity is presented, than he 
had anticipated. He now realizes, and wonders 
he did not before, that all these would be new 
to her, and that she could not be expected to 
enter into them at once at that point to which 
his mind had arrived. This is a sad trial to his 
patience. How long must he wait before he 


SCENE IN EDGEWORTH. 


237 


can, with propriety, propose to her once more 
to change her condition ? Alas, his confident 
hope of success has vanished 1 

After building many castles, and upsetting 
them, — for even men of sixty build air castles, — 
he resolved to see Mrs. Williams and take her 
advice. 

This he did on the following morning; and, 
with a sigh, acquiesced in her opinion, that he 
could not with propriety bring the subject before 
Mrs. Eames for several months. 

“ Courage, courage, my friend,” she said to 
him, at parting, “ you have waited patiently 
seven years ; cannot you now wait half that 
number of months ?” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 

It was a clear, cold day in December. Mary 
Eames was to pass the afternoon with a friend. 

“ Hiram shall go for thee, Mary,” said Amy. 
‘‘It is not best for thee to come alone.” 

With many thanks for her friendly care, Mary 
started, expecting to be absent through the even- 
ing; but the clock had just struck three, when 
Hiram came with a summons for Mary to re- 
turn. 

“ A friend has called upon thee,” said he, in 
answer to her anxious inquiry ; for she feared 
some accident had happened at home. 

Telling him he need not wait, she returned to 

the parlor, took leave of her friends, and directed 

238 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 


239 


her steps homeward. She supposed it must be a 
relation or friend from a distance, otherwise she 
should hardly have been interrupted in her 
visit. 

Upon her arrival she was introduced to Mr. 
Holt, from Edgeworth, an entire stranger, who 
soon told her he had come some forty miles to see 
her, and, as he must go a part of the way home 
that night, requested an interview with her at 
once. 

Amy, to whom his errand was already known, 
immediately arose, and, having assisted Mary in 
taking off her cloak, left the room. 

Judge, then, of the surprise of the widow, when 
told that Mr. Harrington, a person whose name 
even she had never heard, had requested him to 
see her in regard to her feelings connected with a 
second marriage ; or whether she would be willing 
to enter again into that relation. 

After a brief pause, she told him she was so 
taken by surprise she knew not what to say. 
Whenever she had thought of the subject at all, 


240 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


she had resolved never to marry again. She was 
now pleasantly situated, and certainly could give 
no encouragement to one whom she had never 
seen. She, however, listened to all that he said 
in behalf of his friend. His untiring industry 
his upright conduct, his many excellences of char- 
acter, and, above all, his strong attachment to her, 
formed by what he had for years heard of her 
through mutual friends, were duly commented 
upon ; and I should fail to tell the whole truth, 
did I not say that, before the commissioner de- 
parted, she found, to her own astonishment, that 
there might be circumstances which would render 
it her duly to change her resolution. Mr. Holt 
stated also that his friend was in very easy cir- 
cumstances as regarded his pecuniary matters, and 
was both able and desirous of making her com- 
fortable and happy. 

She replied that money would make no differ- 
ence to her in the choice of a companion, provided 
she should ever change her condition, compared 
with having a man of principle, and one who would 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 


241 


be kind to her. This would be all-important in 
her case. 

He then told her Mr. Harrington would probably 
visit her during the ensuing week. 

Though the subject, so unexpectedly brought 
before her, was seldom absent from her thoughts 
by day or her dreams by night, yet she mentioned 
it to no one. She was not aware that Mr. Holt 
had imparted his errand to Amy, who, delighted 
with the favorable prospect before her friend, had 
recommended her in the highest terms. She was 
so modest in her opinion of herself, that she could 
hardly realize that she had excited such interest in 
a stranger. 

When two or three weeks passed, and she heard 
nothing more from Edgeworth, she determined to 
dismiss the matter at once from her thoughts. 

But this was not so easy as she imagined. Mr. 
Harrington, sympathizing in her trials, interested 
in her account of them, would have a place, and a 
prominent place, in her mind. She became rest- 
less and unsettled, and at last really sick. 

16 


242 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


Amy recommended a little change of air, and 
that she should visit her brother and sister for a 
few days. 

“ It is fine sleighing,” she said, “ and Hiram 
will take thee there in an hour, where I can easily 
send for thee in case any thing happens,” she 
added, with rather a significant look. 

With a reluctance, to which she determined not 
to yield, she prepared to go ; and, the next day 
being pleasant, she accepted Hiram’s offer, and 
went with him to her sister’s, after receiving a 
promise to return for her in two or three days. 

Toward the close of the next afternoon, as she 
sat sewing by the window, she saw Hiram drive 
into the yard, accompanied by Amy. Her breath 
came quick and short, but she tried to look un- 
concerned as she went out to welcome them. 

“Put on thy bonnet, my dear,” were Amy’s 
first words as she saw her. “We left company at 
home, and cannot tarry.” 

Poor Mary sat down, and, with her hands before 
her face, for a moment gave way to her feelings. 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 


243 


Then, suddenly rising, found that her good , 
friend had already informed her sister that 
Mary must go home, and nothing remained but 
for her to collect her work and prepare for the 
ride. 

This was soon done, and they were on their 
way. She longed to ask some questions, yet dared 
not. But Amy waited not for questions. Turning 
to her companion, she said, abruptly, — 

“ Thy friend looks feeble ; he has not been out 
for a fortnight. He will need thy care and nursing 
to make him well.” 

Mary could not reply. She felt as if she could 
weep ; not for sorrow, not for joy, but for — she 
knew not what. 

Who shall attempt to describe the workings of 
a woman’s heart. 

Soon they were at their own door. She seemed 
in a dream. Hiram and Amy were upon the steps, 
and assisting her before she hardly knew what 
she was about. ^ She was intending to run, for a 
few moments, to her own room, when the parlor 


244 . 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


door opened, and John came into the entry, ac- 
companied by a tall gentleman, whom he intro- 
duced as Levi Harrington, from Edgeworth. She 
made a low courtesy, and hastily retired. 

Amy insisted she should go into her warm room 
to take off her outer garments, “ for,” said she, 
“ thy hands are like ice.” 

At tea Mary grew more calm, and was able to 
answer the questions addressed to her ; and when,, 
afterwards, Mr. Harrington requested an interview, 
she was much more composed than she had ex- 
pected to be. 

What was said upon that occasion can be more 
easily imagined than described. Though doubt- 
less very interesting to the parties concerned, we 
are not at all sure it would be equally so to 
our readers, and will therefore only relate so 
much of it as was communicated by her, on the 
following morning, to her particular friend, the 
clergyman’s wife, to whom she very properly went 
for advice. 

After conversing with Mrs. Romaine for an hour, 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 


245 


on topics of common interest, she suddenly covered 
her face, and said, “ I have something strange to 
tell you.” She then related the circumstances with 
which we are acquainted. 

“ He has been waiting for me seven years, and 
now he has brought his certificate with him, and 
wishes to be married on Saturday.” 

“ And this is Wednesday ! ” exclaimed her friend, 
in surprise. “ Can you tell whether you shall love 
him so quick?” 

“ Why, you know that I have been thinking of 
him for three weeks,” replied Mary, with wonderful 
naivete. 

Then followed many questions as to his moral 
and religious character, his domestic habits, &c., 
all of which were very favorably answered by 
Mary ; and her friend saw, with surprise, that her 
mind was made up, though perhaps she did not 
acknowledge it to herself. 

Still, she could not conscientiously advise her 
to accept his proposal without farther considera- 
tion. She urged her to take a little trip to Edge- 


246 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


worth, visit her friends, and make inquiries con- 
cerning him; but there were strong objections 
on her part to adopting this course. He had 
come prepared to take her back with him ; 
he could not wait ; and she hated to disappoint 
him. 

“ But,” suggested Mrs. Romaine, “ if you should 
find, on your arrival, that he was not altogether 
such as you imagine, you might regret all your 
life that you had been so hasty.” 

“He thinks I shall not regret it,” replied her 
companion, — (O, the trust of a woman !) “ He 

thinks,” continued she, “that it will be a good 
home for me ; and my friends, where I am staying, 
like him very much.” 

After some more conversation, it was at length 
proposed by Mrs. Romaine that she should write 
to her friends, and request an immediate an- 
swer. 

This advice was eagerly accepted, and Mary’ 
besought the aid of her friend in accomplish- 
ing it. 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 


247 


“You know what is proper; write just as you 
tliink best.” 

Mrs. Romaine complied; and, stating to Mrs. 
Eames’s friend, in Edgeworth, what had occurred, 
asked her to send, in reply, whatever she knew of 
Mr. ^larrington. The answer was to be directed 
to Mrs. Romaine, and was expected the next 
morning. She then invited Mary to call in the 
afternoon, and introduce Mr. Harrington to them. 
This was done, and the visit proved one of satisfac- 
tion to all parties. 

True to her appointment, Mary called the next 
morning to see if there was an answer to the let- 
ter. None had been received, and the sulyect had 
occasioned Mrs. Romaine no small anxiety ; but no 
advice was now necessary. The widow Eames was 
fully decided not to disappoint so faithful a suitor, 
and only wished her friends to approve her choice. 

Busying herself about Mrs. Romaine’s dress to 
hide her face, Mary asked, — 

“ Now, wouldn’t you, if you were in my place, be 
married Saturday, as he wishes ? ” 


248 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


Mrs. Romaine could not resist the pleading look, 
as she turned to reply, and said, “I don’t know 
but I should.” 

This was enough : the matter was settled : Mr. 
Harrington need not be longer harassed with 
doubt. Before she left her friend all the arrange- 
ments for the wedding were made, and Mary 
returned to give her consent, and to pack her 
trunk. 

Preparations now went briskly on. Friendly 
visits were made ; presents received ; trunks 
packed with great speed. The marriage was to be 
celebrated at a quarter before two, that they might 
be in season for the cars to take them to Edge- 
worth. 

At the appointed time, Mr. Harrington and 
Mary, with her personal relatives and friends’ 
made their appearance. She had just begun 
to realize the importance of the step she was 
about to take ; but there is no time for re- 
gret now. The bridegroom and the bride take 
their places ; the blessing is invoked ; their 


THE STRANGE PROPOSAL. 249 

hands are joined ; the man of God pronounces 
the words which unite them for life ; a prayer is 
offered; the benediction pronounced; and — they 
are gone! 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE UNHAPPY RESULT. 

Months passed rapidly with good Amy and 
the friends left behind ; but, alas ! with the bride, 
who had been so willing to forsake all that was 
dear to her, for life with a stranger, the days 
lagged drearily on. 

When she reached her new home, she found 
Mrs. Williams had lighted a fire in the red, 
rusty stove, and was engaged in making a cup 
of tea. She welcomed her old friend cordially, 
and then, seeing Mary’s eye glance around the 
dirty, dismal apartment with wonder, took the 
opportunity, while Mr. Harrington put up his 
horse, to explain. 

‘‘ I declare, it’s a shame to bring you to such 

250 


THE UNHAPPY RESULT. 


251 


a place ! Stephen says a woman hasn’t been in 
it for months, — that his father wouldn’t have 
the expense. I’d have come myself and scoured 
the paint, and put things to rights, if I’d any idea 
how it looked.” 

“He told me I should find enough to do to 
keep me from being homesick,” remarked Mary, 
smiling faintly. “ But how did you know we 
were coming to-night, or that I was coming at 
all?” 

“ Why, I received a letter making inquiries 
about Mr. Harrington, and wrote an answer at 
once, praising him up ; for he is a good man 
about most things. I told you honestly, though, 
that he was called close, — some say mean. I 
think if I had been here I should have hesitated 
some before I advised you to take him, though 
I’ve had my heart set on having you here. 
When I went to put my letter in the office I 
saw Stephen, and he said his father was coming 
home Saturday, sure, for churning had got to 
be done, — and so I didn’t send it.” 


252 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


“ Well,” answered the bride, trying to look 
cheerful, it’s too late to change what’s past. 
I must take off my shawl and get supper. We 
haven’t had any thing to eat since morning, 
except some cake Amy crowded into my 
bag?” 

I hunted round to find something that I 
could make for tea,” Mrs. Williams went on, 
growing somewhat excited, “ but there was no 
saleratus. I brought a little loaf of cake ; I 
don’t see but you’ll all have to make supper 
of that.” 

Mr. Harrington entered at this moment; and 
she turned quickly to him, saying, “ It’s too bad 
to bring a bride to such a dirty house. I don’t 
wonder Miranda won’t come home if you keep 
it looking so.” 

The man colored, and seemed about to make 
an angry reply, but checking himself, said, 
“ There’ll be all the better chance for her to show 
herself a good housekeeper.” 

Poor Mary Harrington found, before the close 


THE UNHAPPY RESULT. 


253 


of the next week, the truth of the old adao-e, 
“ Marry in haste and repent at leisure.” From 
morning to night she worked harder than she 
had ever done before, — scouring, scrubbing, and 
trying to reduce the confused mass of odds and 
ends to some degree of order. The broken fur- 
niture she carried to the attic ; a heap of old 
clothes she washed and put aside, to braid into 
a rug ; the leaky pails, tin coffee-pot, &;c., she 
persuaded her husband to solder ; the soiled walls, 
after having pleaded in vain for a few cents’ 
worth of lime for whitewash, she scoured down 
with soft soap, made by her own hands. 

All these improvements, together with the 
skill Mary displayed in cheap cooking, elicited 
not one word of praise. That was not Mr. Har- 
rington’s way. He considered that in giving 
Mary a home, — a “ good home,” as he called 
it, — he had conferred a favor upon her, such as 
she could only repay by working hard for him 
and his as long as she lived. 

I have not time to relate her many grievances, 


254 


THE LYNN BEIDE. 


as they occurred day after day, all of which 
made their mark on Mary’s health. The lines 
in her face began to deepen ; the sad, pa- 
tient smile to be seen less and less; the old 
anxious look, such as she had worn during her 
former husband’s sickness, and which had so ex- 
cited the compassion of kind Amy, reappeared. 
While in the midst of her work she often paused 
to sigh over the haste with which she had taken 
upon herself the solemn vows of matrimony. 

Miranda Hastings, Mr. Harrington’s daughter, 
hearing of the revolution caused by the new wife, 
came to call on her, and frankly, though inju- 
diciously, revealed many circumstances relative to 
her father’s life with her own mother not at all to 
the credit of the former. 

Eleven months after Mary Eames became Mary 
Harrington, Mrs. Romaine received the following 
hasty letter: — 

“ My dear Friend : 

‘‘ Two days after I left Lynn I regretted that I 


THE UNHAPPY RESULT. 


255 


had not taken your advice, and waited to know 
more of Mr. Harrington before I married him. 
I have tried to do my duty here faithfully, but 
the trials are beyond my strength. My health 
is failing fast, and next week I expect to go to 
Lynn to visit Amy Low. Mrs. Williams advises me 
never to return. O, how many bitter tears I have 
shed at the recollection of your words, — ‘If you 
should not find him such as you imagine, you 
might regret all your life that you had been so 
hasty.’ 

“ Your broken-hearted friend, 

“ Mart H.” 

Poor Mary did visit Lynn, and after much 
prayerful consideration of her case by her former 
pastor, was induced to return to her husband, and 
endure, with what patience she could, the trials 
allotted her, trusting in God to sustain her. 

Mr. Harrington heard from his son of her re- 
luctance to come back, and from that time she 
never knew an hour of peace till she found it, at 


256 


THE LYNN BRIDE. 


the end of three months, in the grave. She died, 
a warning to all who would rush hastily into mar- 
riage, and without due knowledge of the person 
with whom they unite their destiny. 


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OR, THE LAST OP THE HUGGERMDGGERS. 

Embellished with numerous Illustrations. In one vol. Price $1.00. 

The above Juvenile is elegantly and profusely illustrated and one of 
the most interesting Giant Stories ever published. 

■» 

THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER; 

OTl, THE EE-A.CE: EEOTHEES- 

* BY JOHN BUSKIN. 

Elegantly Illustrated by Richard Doyle, Is the handsomest 
Juvenile ever published in this country. Price $1.00. 

4 

OE, “A SILVEE_I.INIIIG TO EVEET CLOUT).” 

BY “ESTELLE.” 

Square lOmo, Illustrated. Price 60 cents. 


ESTELLE’S STOEIES ABOUT DOGS. 

FOR GOOD BOYS AND GIRLS. 

With plates. Square 16mo. Price 60 cents.* 

A choice collection of the best stories of dogs, which cannot fail to 
Interest and delight every young admirer of this faithful animal.” — 
Salem Register. 

“ There is a graceful beauty in the externals of this book, and an in- 
terest in its matter, which will make it a great favorite with all youth- 
ful readers.” — Bangor Whig. 

“ A very handsome gift to a boy or girl fond of that noble animal.”— 
N. Inquirer. 

“ A charming little volume ”— Troy Budget. 





Headlong Career of Precocious 
Piggy. 

Little Man and Little Gun. 

Nine Lives of a Cat. 


The Robber Kitten. 
Picture Alphabet. 

Fireside Picture Alphabet. 


The same with Colored Pictures. Price, plain, 15 cents each ; 
colored, 25 cents. 


LEE & SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON, 


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